I think of coffee stained pages
and loose, ink-stained sweatshirt sleeves
of the valley beyond the library window
and the long road to the hospital
that was frustratingly uninspiring
I think of the road trips and the life lived on the edge
of adventure, eccentricity, wanderlust and madness
of how a lot of it was painstakingly deliberate
of how rain is never about the moment right now
of how when the red bricks soak, they register
but not quite
of how when the frogs come out
and when the green is pronounced
and when the air is laden with petrichor
and when LKP floods and footballers play
of how a lot of it is observation
one step short of experience
always almost there
but never quite
The shroud lifts only briefly
only to reveal what wonders lie beneath
and falls back very lightly
so you see through it but you can't feel
you can smell but not touch
I am a prisoner in my mind
and may be that is why I write