Can be Kentish
A potholed road
Overhung
Komorebi

Benched messages
Coppiced stools
Fungi spattered
Bluebelled high

Traffic jam
Sloe gin
An hour commute
Frustrated sigh

Synaptic snacks
Wrack
Again membrane

Jogged five
Miles
Fierce smile

Muscles pinching
Refusing
To be pacified

Bath time
Clay wrapped
Joint snapped

Sensations
Flood
Babbling

Weekend bliss
Although cliché
Sums up how
I feel on a weekday

I thought at forty
Things would be clearer
Goals would be nearer
Without yesteryear’s salary

The reset year
In a dress, so sheer
At the pier
Grateful to be here
With my love, so dear
A bike engineer

Day Twenty-one
Aged twenty-one
We sat in our first flat
But, more than that,

Time passed
Like one thousand
Claims
At the call centre

A decade later
Reading records
Of factory women
A diary of telephone calls

What was it all for?