Moanday Mourning
Monday morning,
the sun is still down,
the temperature fallen
to meet the singles,
their days
pigeonholed
and their
hearts
their own.
Hear only
the waterbirds
squawk and witter
over pre-season buds
(the river in flow)
the early songbirds
warble and cheep
and the call of cars
that sigh over tar,
an infernal
machine drone
over it all.
And did you hear
that Dot passed away?
The old English lady,
over in Newlands
where we used to stay?
Oh, I recall Dot
of the wild rice and maggots
and the young doctor
god-playing
horror stories.
Bright old duck
gone slightly batty.
Did she have dementia
for absolute years then?
