...and I'm back
in the poetry shed.
Uneasy with creatures in dark corners
never really convinced
they can do me no harm.
And why am I here?
No latest episode to relate
no issue I cogitate
I have no gong to bang.
Why am I here? You tell me.
Whatever progress made through perfect stillness
to dim unholy light I surface
as foxes emerge from cover.
Stars hang over like guardian's eyes.
It's a matter of survival
minute by minute dice tumbling
over and over.
Lucky the foxes, grey cats and the like
who at last retreat to the den
wait for loved ones to come back.