Some kind of story about life's fears
A memory of sitting in the old backyard
Sloping down toward the riverβs living
The winding Murray River post invasion
With snow caps on the distant horizon
Bracing miracle alive but just out of reach
With enforced numbness I watched on
Sensing gradual decline even back then
But many more chances to just sit still
Why did I listen to people urging haste?
Urging some sort of pointless busyness
Only slow things ever made any sense
Time to reflect on my choices and stances
If only I could stare out my window more
Instead of rushing off for pointless toil
The oval trees and benches are so inviting
The same old kids playing parents staring
Fitness people walking around the oval
Always go anti-clockwise for some reason
Sometimes striding and always I laugh
Striding into their looming certain demise
Why did I ignore poetry for so long?
Why did I deny the deepest of truths
The reality of my own soulβs grieving
Nothing else matters or makes any sense
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