I put down shopping bag to open door
And - quelle surprise! - the glass bottles topple
And crash against the unforgiving floor
Thank God there is no wine or beer puddle
Narrow escape again. It’s no riddle
Really, certainly no conspiracy
So why does my mind still grind and grapple
With forces that are imaginary
And all seem to be lined up against me?
Survival instinct kicking in? Though flawed
It keeps me on my toes, makes me brittle
The bottle is my soul, its expiry
Glimpsed as when lost at night-time on the moor
Or leaning over cliff edge, I stumble
Tue 3 June 2008
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