Sunday, April 26, 2015

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.

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