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.