It is Nineteen-eighty-seven
I am thirty-five years old
I am stood
Looking out of the window
In the small back bedroom
Of our fairly new detached house
I have a devoted family
Two beautiful children
A good job
A brand new car
My studies are going well
But something isn’t right
The black mist has descended
I am frustrated
I want to extend the house
But don’t know why, or how
I want to do more with work
But aren’t sure what, or how
We have small back garden
Bordered by trees
Conifers and poplars
Which I had planted
One sodden wet
Easter weekend
There is a small, straight
Water-feature, by the patio
To be honest there isn’t room
For an extension
I write a poem
It could be the first I ever wrote
It is dark
It is despondent
It is without hope
It cries of my frustrations
It talks of loss
It talks of despair
It is Two-thousand-and-five
I am eighteen years older
I am leaving another house
With a small, straight
Water feature; a rill
As I now name it
It is Two-thousand-and-seventeen
I am looking back
I don’t know why, or how
Both water-features are filled in
Both houses have been sold
And sold at least once again
