Things Forgotten

There’s a crack that flows like a river across my ceiling, 

I’ve been here so long that I know every twist, meander and tributary.

When I was younger I could imagine I was on a paddle-boat.

At various points there were rapids and lock gates, waterfalls and crocodiles.

Enormous fish swam between the long yellow pillars that shone form the surface and Vanished into the darkness below.

In those days the thoughts had no words, 

Just pictures that would float in and out as the warm current held me in its arms 

And I drifted off to sleep.

Now midway between the hours of midnight and dawn 

I lie on my back fully dressed in my sweat stink clothes, 

Playing an unplugged guitar and not thinking. 

The river has grown wider and there are many more channels, islets and distributaries. 

The icy flow no longer caresses me but rolls me across the rocks in the shallows.

For shame the crocodiles have gone.

Perhaps there never were any.

The fish have gone too, as has a deep pool that once reflected the willow I climbed in.

The paddle boat is now a barge; it has a great deal more to carry.

It’s time I went through it.