Hen Gitar

All things must pass

I’m missing the Friday feelgood,
with that castle at Cricieth through the mist
like some poxy Welsh hat, and only
death’s breaking news to keep me company.
Old age means giving back
what we had on loan
or maybe that eternal skirmishing
between… (missing words)…
None of the seasons knows where
to turn. Butterflies are born
in the east wind’s poison
bottle. Even winter’s grounded.
What’s life but small talk?
We all know what’s waiting
                    when the fingerpicking’s done.
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