From here in Australia, I’ve been reading the stories about Mr Trump and his having contracted the ‘Covid’ virus this week, and his subsequent “miraculous/cure” recovery…. which seemed to remind me of this poem I wrote back in October 2017
Not Here nor There
My time is slowly passing.
Age is creeping, not lasting.
I’m frail and growing older.
My body shivers when it’s colder.
And sweats like hell, in the heat.
My mind is feeble and weak.
I don’t seem to remember.
Whether it’s March, April, or September.
Here I sit, what am I doing.
There I look, where am I going.
There I ask, what’s for tea dear.
Oh, I forgot, she’s not here.
Well best I retire to bed.
Wrest this weary head.
Under a linen sheet, like a white hood.
And lie here, on this piece of driftwood.
Ivor Steven (c) October 2017