Mid-morning heat in late September,
desk top artifacts stare,
the in-tray and out-tray of my mind
play hide and seek,
ink flies from paper, from memory and forgetting,
staplers go mad
trying to pin together the untenable.
It is mid-morning here
and wherever you are,
it must be late evening for you,
pastel-coloured and soft,
and I,
I am whipped by the lies of time
of location and remembrance.
I am told there's bright sunshine
rising in a stupor from the road outside
but it is raining here
and drenched in a time-squeeze
I am visited by teardrop and sigh;
so tell me
dream-ribbon that scented time,
tell me,
is it all a lie
when you come to me
again and again
through nighttime and daybreak
and dew-laden fields?
