Tick, tick, boom

Headlights disappear behind the trees
up the windy Trinloist Road -
but today the air is still, cold,
passing into my lungs bringing
early Spring.

The road is etched on my heart -
every painful inch -
in lines of red, black, grey,
and all the colours of an autumn day,
the life of an azure island getaway
in blue and green and torrential
rain.  The ink in my trousers

ran, in the dockyard, of Nelson's
figurehead - except that all of my
icons were already dead
and I could not resurrect them.

Today, here, my hand is empty
and all I feel is the freezing
vacuum of the stars, an extending
universe, so far, there is no reason
for the heart to beat at all,
I know my seconds are running
out - how vast the uncertainty

that is the fount of all our days
as we gird our strength to
keep breathing.  I would give
anything to be in a different
presence, where they were, when
I still had youth in my blood
and no brain, no understanding.

With my retiree eyes I see all
things and I feel the yearning
gap in my heart and soul with
every inhale.  And pale love
does not have the weight on the
scales to make a difference, to
make balance happen.  I have an
ephemeral pen which the
breath of seconds erases
before the ink has time to dry.

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