Three years back

I would have cried for the lack

of what was missing.

And, in spite of recording it

there and then on a page, again

and again I would have pined over it,

sucked it dry, a spider's prey


Now, in the shade of a rather

horrible maturity,

I laugh at what I write

for it means nothing.

I had to 'spark over' somehow

and it seemed the best way,

a sort of trick to ease the day

to a soft bedded sleep

in cool sheets alone.