A poem

Here’s a new autumn poem, from looks like about the last day we’ll still be leaving things out in the sun….

 

Hangover.

 

There’s a barrow leaning
up against a bench in the sun
handles in the air, to let it drain
the customary way; and on the handles
my boots, washed inside and out and left
to the slow process of drying.

It’s nothing remarkable, but every time
I round the corner I exclaim:
what the hell am I doing there?
surely I must have had some
night on the tiles and been
brought home in a wheelbarrow!

Yet here I am, just as normal:
my head’s not even sore, there’s proof
I’ve not been up to any mischief.
– Seems like there’s been some excitement
some campaign, some big thrust
that was supposed to win us all

Independence of mind.
I don’t know but I’ve been told
and apparently it failed, which is the way
with all big thrusts. Anyway, maybe
that’s what that upended barrow-boy’s
trying to sleep off, better leave him to it.