Losing The Plot (Poetry)

Not one foot in but both —
already more than half-committed
the story winding up
all padding now — nostalgia
on a dreamy roll
and if truth or fiction
really can be told
I’m kind of glad I’ve lost
all sense of plot
the mind unravelling those old
redundant fantasies
turning corners — rediscovering
strange and distant memories
that seem unlikely and somehow
past belonging.

I have odd visions of tall wild grass
and an infinity of winters’ rest
a name upon a grey stone page
but maybe not quite yet
while the narrative still grows
a little more each day
words run with every tide
and flood imagination’s private bay
with possibilities...

Those moonless evenings when thought stumbles —
turning grave with doubt
I curse the tutting clock — find some comfort
in thin sheets of paper — let
another disconnected chapter loose.