The hair falls
I am used to this

But not like this
I picked and pulled

Until I was sick I picked and pulled
Bald patches

Sores and blisters, aching pores, thin scratches
Were my own doing

Plaiting, twisting and undoing
Repeatedly until ends frayed

Now I am afraid
It is beyond my control

I am used to control
Hair falls

Imagining this moment
For years

Youthfully picturing
Truthfully roosting

A slip could end it all

So could a jump

Or a fall

The silver-grey area inbetween
Is flashing

I climb down

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