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