Death
A cool breeze
In the afternoon that sends me nodding into siesta
I dream of a view from a crumbling room
across a faded port
where ships have patched sails
and children whistle the tunes learnt from crusty sailors
while they make toy boats from rubbish
How much meaning we give to life but little to the present
What remains wedged uncomfortably is the thinnest slice of past and future
The ghost of a thought
So hardly worth the trouble nodding I go
I am ready to wake or not from the longest of siestas
Little fear left that I will miss the rope thrown by the crusty sailor
Disappearing with a sigh beneath waves that fill my nostrils