It’s mid-September; the year’s running out
Even the decade’s running out of steam
Or is it me I’m really on about?
Is it me who’s becoming a has-been?
Can’t be, because I haven’t really been
Anything yet, and that’s why I can’t rest
Can’t tend a garden, contentedly lean
On my front gate, sun sinking in the west
I can’t relax, only escape at best
In the late evening, and when lights go out
Consoling visions turn drought into streams
In dreams that drown out shouts and screams, unrest
Upstairs and down, outside and inside out
That within minutes pulls me from each dream
Sun 14 Sep 2008
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