adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Wrens, a poem


A wren hunts all around the window
frame, clinging, creeping,
poking into spider webs
I should have cleared away

last year or the year before.
They’ll probably remain
next year, also, noticed only
now and then or never.

There are no longer plans drawn up,
lists written and rewritten.
Each day is like the last and I
don’t know if it is Monday

or tomorrow. The sun does not
care, the rain still falls,
and being alone is almost as bad
as being with someone else.

The days flit, brown as wrens, seeking
and singing and building nests,
as seasons pass, and night speaks
of owls until I sleep.

Stephen Brooke ©2015

I scribbled most of this down on a piece of scrap paper shortly before going to bed last night. Therefor, I consider this an early draft (rewritten a tad and 'finished' this morning) and subject to further rewrites.

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