Friday, January 8, 2016

Thy Neighbour

Got to put in the time with non-choice always,
as it is always present and one day always wondered.

My previous out of hands are out of my hands and as they should. 

I knew them so perhaps I can still depict the ripples as they quibble;
in whose world where will the kids comfortably gather
by the garden table,
scoop scampi from the mound,
feed on that and the ducked chat of the creosote,
the faux-embarrassment of neglect that creeps out of and pulses the hedgerows.

I'm thinking reverb tails and other such claptrap,
but the cats' tails have stopped,

I've notched up the pre-delay on my fading recollections,
but who has time for this cue?

My out of hands won't find new life in them,
or anywhere else really.

I can see where the tail tapers.

I'm just wondering will I have anyone to return with
when the decking collapses,
when the New Forest turns to clay.


  1. I don't think so. P.s. Eat cherries for gout (that was you, weren't it?)

  2. Thanks for the tip, will pass on to relative with head in sand.