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.