Fed and quartered on beds edge.
The cold sun sinks, limp shadow
wraiths strewn screeds, scatty notes,
forgotten glimpses of time pledged
dreaming word dreams, now merely
ungainly ugly doodles.
Weak, sloppy, turgid, grey
premises of yarns & plays.
No, just throw them all away,
The black bin bag is waiting:
You only have to turn around.
‘Snow is not thick on the ground’
Hopeless weatherwomen say
When nobody is watching.
Mention of kedgeree, vindaloo, and
rotis spur me from my slumber of libraries,
edits, and re-writes: more painkillers
due soon, and more in process.
Waking dream…
Local pill-makers frantically
mixing and moulding in small manufactures
before the dark.
Soon night will fall and they must be
ready for the collection, or there will be
no money, and they will eat their
potatoes glum in worried,
tired, futile silence.
So, guilty as I naturally feel to be a burden,
it is good to know there is a purpose to my existence.
What would they do without me?
Perish the very thought, accept the claim:
every sod’s part of the main.
Grimbeau 