After Sunday Lunch

words tap the shoulder softly
unexpected
seek recognition
recede into drowsiness

fortunately return
at a more convenient hour
when someone is home
the mind less a mess

surely the important ones
rise to rekindle the original thought
the striking of a match
which fails at first attempt

I have this firm conviction
that the second showing
will be far brighter than
the flame that did not form

so sitting back with a yawn . . .

I offer no excuses –
for remaining at rest

not picking up a pen
keeping the page pure

. . . for falling
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . fast . . .



© Richard Scutter Monday 17 February 2003

At Batehaven ... August 2001