Waiting

It’s a Tuesday, hot and humid in July

Heat soaking through from all sides

A sweltering still afternoon.

Forlorn and yellow sycamore seeds,

Autumnal before their time,

Hang listless, like me

Waiting

Waiting, in my case, for the Covid

Power-drain to be repaired

And limbs refilled with

Will and purpose

And a mind to wake up

And imagine more than

Sleep

Progress: twenty sit-ups,

Only to lie long dormant.

Later, a poet, sent to trouble me

Whose words, like piano notes,

Danced me away.

But I have insufficient battle to be

Jealous

One day, I say to my boots,

You shall walk through Welsh mud again.

I long for wild weather, howling hill winds,

Black fingerless gloves, steaming mugs,

And crouching on a frozen summit,

On Sugar Loaf with

You

One day