on the edge

On the edge,

enclosed in solitude,

water, a cat, lapping

at my feet,

the day grows

to maturity.

The complaint of gulls

mobs a buzzard overhead,

a moorhen scuttles across the lake

like an over-wound clockwork toy. 

Nature carries on

as if I were not there.

But I am here -

my chest rises and falls

with the inevitability of breath.

And here I bring

my joys and sorrows,

my bucket of worries,

the aches of heart and body.

I have no harp to lay down.

I do not bring voice

to the poem that writes itself

on the edge

enclosed in solitude.