The years are a series of small defeats,

bright rooms whose doors you open easily,

 

until out of the blue you don’t recall

why it is you’re standing there,

 

in front of an upstairs window

with sudsy swathes of blossom and then,

 

beyond them, the joists of a roof

your neighbour’s renewing, his spanking car...

 

But just as strangely you notice

–  where it must have been all along –

 

your wallet, a key, or the invoice

you have meant for days to pay.

 

Loose ends, gaps, untidiness –

that’s the slackness you abhor

 

when keeping your grip on small stuff

makes you who you are…

 

And if, for the moment, a riff

eludes you, unable to name that tune,

 

the bright spark inside your head

takes his time, but never gets it wrong.