Poetry

Dusk is later than it was, And, waiting on the path outside karate, It isn’t dark, just getting grey. As we wait, the air is full of shrieks, Cries and clouds of shapes around the tallest trees. The rooks are busy, noisy, crowded, And possibly the tree above us is their pub, With all the noise their sharing of the week. I have no clue what any rooks are doing....

I try to take things with me where I can, Devices that seem normal, not too new, Objects that my hand knows how to grasp As well as thoughts that take no energy to think. There is a spice to newness, but it’s rich, And savoured best when sprinkled on the bland. Too many pieces of a former life Stay back among the pieces of their own, And they are gaps for me, as I for them....