Sparse these threads of vapour fine, of misty trails of know
Of effervescent gaseousness, wherein the mind should flow.
Sparse the shades of knowing, which  whereupon we dwell
And sparser still, when suddenly, the mind set sheds it’s shell.

That vacant hall of ordinary that hangs without a trace
Of yesterday’s familiar touch of golden knowing’s grace,
When everything just vanishes to leave this empty tomb
And life suspends to nothingness’s, cold and pallid moon.

How suddenly, how cruelly it flings away the key
To all that recognises these factors that are me,
How brutally it scarifies the topsoil from the loam
To leave the fragile flailing, futilely, so far from home.

As film’s fear descends, it seems, while realisation dwells
Of all that’s been so ruefully and painfully dispelled
What hangs now may well be my lot, my fortunes saddened song
Or perhaps should I give cheer, for stuff retained.... prolonged?

M.
Foxglove, Taranaki, NZ
7 February 2018
Threaded the needle path of the dreaded septuagenarian stroke.