Aubade

Woken up or still awake, the grass frosted,

Thinking out loud he says:

‘Maybe it’s cos I don’t read enough’

And ideas of cannons being primed

In fiercely frozen fields take off

And crash soon after pen hits paper,

Fuselage looking soft in the early rays,

Kerosene spilling out and the flames

Making a mockery of hard cloddy ground.

Let’s try again, this time fix

On the loyalties of that age, print them out

Almost factually the first stanza; research it,

Be deaf to the clarion of social networking.

Do the work. That plane idea was interesting,

Flesh it out.

                   But no. Apparently not.

Music or something or mazy thinking

Grant that horrible few seconds of uncertainty

When it shouldn’t be enough but might be.

It’s always enough. ‘I need more sleep

And to read more.’

                            For now, the gauze

He’s written about before, and resents

Referencing, again descends,

Like the biggest duvet cover

You will never find the corner of.