We are loping in the margins, waiting For time to become ours again.
The margins get smaller as Larger type fills the page.


The road forks

Strands that

Forever but also

Are thin and can

Slip through hands.

Close the cracks.

Keeping it real

We make what ifs and isn’ts

To feed our minds fresh memories


What can be made can be

Seen, what can be seen, is.


Still life cannot be stopped,

It was there before easel,


We can only sit in silence

And find peace in mimicry.


His roaming came

Round one day,

Led him fast

To me over skiddy

Bumps, lumps

In his throat, throttled

Down with sheer

Glide, the pride

Of Fate that bears

Souls on, beyond

The room they

Live in, to another

In the house or

Outside, even,

Further on,

To a new

Life and

Strange people,

Foreign with newness.

Here his soul

Found me,

Clocking out a

Beating sound

To mark passing

Life, feet nailed

Heavy, to the

Ground. Now

It feels as though

That instant,

Nails flew wide

And I flew up

With him on

Something fast

Moving and heady.

In reality

Time swept

On, no less

Neat than

Before nailed

Feet, freed,

Leapt on.


Tell me Life

Toblerone day

Chunk of bite

Bitten off.

What has stopped

The cool running

Fate and redirected

It somewhat



Is it illness, embedded

Or a viral bug

Caught quick,

Nifty urchin,

Off the Tube?


More to wit,

Can I control it,

Make it go

Stop with a loud




[7th October]