Enjoying reading Ros Barber’s The Marlowe Papers: A Novel. Came across this on page 17:
Watching my father at last, I learnt
that love is a necessity of craft.
Who writes must love their pen and every mark
it makes upon the paper, and the words
that set their neighbours burning, and the line
that sounds again against the skull when read again.
Elbows against a schoolboy’s desk, I learnt
the dead can be conjured from their words through ink,
that ancient writers rise and sing through time
as if immortal, the poet’s voice preserved
like the ambered insect some see as a scratch
but I’d imagine flying, brought to life.
And so to precious paper I commit
the only story I can never tell.