Lines on a Grid

I sit each day in cruciverbal tussle
With pen in hand and coffee at my side,
I sit and think and flex my mental muscle,
And take my jaded brain out for a ride.

The unfilled grid commands my full attention,
It lays a challenge I cannot refuse,
The crossword setter’s self-confessed intention:
To tease me with some cunning cryptic clues.

The clues, while never meaning what they’re saying, 
Will always say precisely what they mean,
With nods and winks and misdirections, playing
A game of wits before the answer’s seen.

With hidden words, deletions and additions,
Charades, acrostics, anagrams galore,
And homophones and double definitions,
And spoonerisms – these I can’t ignore.

The day is not complete without the feeding
With letters all those hungry empty squares;
The satisfaction felt upon succeeding
Is something with which only rhyme compares

© 2020 Glen Scott