At ten thirty
Houseplants die
By dust fair dirty
A room with a view
Of a railroad
A moor
Some way beyondA radio station
Misplaced
Here a Saturday
On a Thursday
A dial beyondWay past beyond
My last
Imagination
Would that this warmth
Was as settled
As the mind
That it tries to disturb
This body displacedReplaced
Each spring
Each autumn
Each winter
Dusted
With a thin fine sprinkle
Of fair-weather soft fallen snow
A room with a view
Back over a fair few years
A mischievous miscalculation
Lost among a past matriculation
A song
Would thatTo pluck
A single note
In time, in tune
My only; dare I even say
My only one regret
My missed single dust note mote
This poem is from the collection East of Lincoln Central available now on kindle - click on the text for details
