On days when my eyes

On days when my eyes

Are as heavy as the mood

The wind as wild as a lion

With toothache

Shaking its mane to ease the pain

Failing miserably

Flailing blindly

Bending trees

Supple branches whipping, dangerously

New leaves clinging on

With limpet claws

Clamped onto the branches

Nothing but rain and grey skies

I think bugger it

I should be able to write something

Sitting in front of a floor-to-ceiling window

Gives me an advantage

Over a blank page

In a darkened room

Filled with the smell

Of coffee and red wine.

Failure is infectious

I caught it at birth

A bit like herpes

It isn’t always apparent

But remains a pervasive presence

Ready to steal the limelight

Whenever it feels the time is right.

A first date

Or a fortnight away in the Med

Looking for adventure

Finding a cheap hotel

And a shady character

Selling timeshares

To losers in perpetuity.

So many break a leg

On a getaway

Feel the burn of the sun

On their backs

Wishing they were somewhere

Anywhere

With somebody else.

It is in the nature

Of the melancholic

To brutalise the truth

With dark stories

Full of self-regard

But that is not me

I am fully cognisant

Of the fact that I am

A sad sack of hubris

Buried in the profundity of

The self-absorbed.

Rarely reaching satisfaction

Often preaching

Without conviction

Using a sharp stick

To scratch a few words

In the sand

Pushing out a boat

Floating it down

The River

For a mudlark

Whilst whistling

The Colonel Bogey march

Blowing the doors

Off an old Post Office van

And finding a little piece of England

In a line or two

Of Blake.

Bring me my bow of burning gold.