Quandary

The gamble, every day, is
when will I leave?  When
will my name
be called?  No-one
can say.

There was frozen snow on the
ground today yet the
chatter of the birds and the
lovely air felt like
Spring was here.  Pale

streaked sky, chaffinches,
blue tits, all flitted past me
happy in their branches
eating seeds.  I am aware
of a need I cannot name;
aware of a lost quality
I cannot put my finger on.

There is no-one to ask -
what it all is, and was,
and what I should seek, how

I should busy my hands.  If
my mother were here, she'd
tell me not to worry - just
to live my day.
I don't know how to do that
I'd say, when the hours
seem so slippery and
no two days the same:
routine is gone.  I grasp

but come up empty.
I am in moonscape
territory:  sharp stones
hurt my feet.  You'd
think I know how to
meet it, how to hold my
compass, heft my pack and
get on.  But the unfamiliar

renders me forlorn
and I am again at your
bedroom door
and the light is not on.

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