A poem by my turquoise fountain pen

I scratch your paper,

I run out of ink,

I’m a temperamental sod,

I bring you to the brink.

My original pattern

is faded with use.

Yet you still reach for me,

letting my nib run loose.

You think your best words

Come out of your favourite pen.

And those marks of turquoise magic

are a whispering from heaven.