34 Weeks

By | 1 May 2021

March was a crazy year.
After the rains we were safe
or so we had assumed.
The era of weather as pleasure
is past and I spent this day
mooning over the poems
I squandered when I left
the laptop to update.
Snatches come back
(but only as a sense of presence)
and you try affirmating
yourself that it’s all deposited
into the great cosmic bank
of sit at desk and do the work
when time passed gilds the lost.
And it’s hard to grieve when
you can’t inventory what’s gone.
But amidst the missing I found
this poem, that’s something,
despite myself in my Sunday shed
remembering Toots Hibbert
bv letting Lenny Henzell
highlight the finest shades
of after shower sunshine.
Some clichés antiquate glacially.
My mates all make fun of
what will soon be ended
while I can’t even make sense
of what I can salvage.

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