... that is not important.

You’ve spent your time
– so much of our time -
on something that is not important.
And what’s more, you already knew that.
And still you went on
in the hope that it might redeem itself.

We both know what’s important
and what’s not.
We know what is worth our time,
our attention, our tears,
our sleepless nights.
We know what is worth our pain
and what is not.

And yet,
you have near exhausted your time
and, by extension, our time
on something that will never reimburse us.
Something that has cheapened you – us -
and has reduced us to this.

I need to know -
will you fight for something that is important?
And are we important to you?

Is there a villain in every story?
Or do we insert one?
Does that make it easier to tell?

Is there a hero?
And does it have to be you?

Or could you be the villain?

Is there an end to every story?
Or do we create one?
Does that make it easier to tell?

Is there a new start?
And does it have to be your's?

Or could you be the ending?

And why does it have to matter?

It’s before nine.  I have another chilled hour
before the Swallow cafe opens for cooked breakfast
and a day before the family funeral.

The sky is clear to the east, but further north
there’s pre-spun wool resting lightly on the hills,
heavy with possibility and miles from home.

A poem is a flawed thing
made by damaged hands,
thoughts yet complete,
words unsound,
but close, like a whisper away,
as close as a line-break,
to the heart of something

Striving in fear
or living in favour
Feeling the dread
or hearing the angel