Lost for words,
A sad state for a poet.
To sift, reduce and clarify an initial pile of words is required.
They are out there,
On the other side of dewy glass
Where life lives on in haste, high humour and holidays.
Behind frosted glass
I watch, rub, tap gently,
Listen to voices distorted by distance and separation
Calendar pages flick past,
Face-to-face, keeping distance,
Pain becomes more solid when outwardly acknowledged.