I didn’t consider myself a writer until I met you.
You were all scruffy hair and spectacles
at the end of your nose,
all classic novels
and 20 cups of tea
to keep you going
your tap, tap, tap on your writing desk
with your ink-stained finger tips.
I inspired you, you had said
and I clung to this long after you had forgotten,
Your gentle smile and freckles and your one armed hugs
wrapped myself in your wool jumper that winter
jotting down pencil words in messy notebooks,
with sore fingertips on typewriter keys,
I am certain,
I wasn’t a writer,
Until you inspired me.