Pool on the sill

I hear it’s November
but the rains sound the same

The birds, I hear
and see as they drink from puddles

I hear my radiators
clicking, groaning
so it must be a chilly November
but it all feels the same

I see it’s grey out there
and suddenly the birds are silent
as I watch dribbling condensation
pool on the sill

I swim in that pool
and feel a tremendous hankering
to evaporate.

The lack of it

They appeared
in those days
as a feeling

and finished
I felt them.

I knew when a poem
was coming through
because of the pain

my head would be bursting
for days on end
and then a poem
worked better than pills.

Sometimes, thankfully
I’d get a weird gut feeling
and I knew
I felt
and I wrote.

Now I’m on different pills
so my blood isn’t boiling
my head isn’t bursting
and my gut isn’t feeling
so often

but neither is the poetry

(except for this 3am sleepless drivel!)