I am trapped by the wind
memory’s lurking world
all is not quiet
children stomp the field
and the inner wish of writing a poem, publishing it, getting
it read is washed in drowning echoes of the
insipid sun.
Is it worth writing about this?
The football match goes on
only children, happy, shout,
drowning the self in letters
sorrowfully draining the last
cup of the sun.
Soon the day will end,
sitting at home the cup of tea
brewing in newspaper headlines, awaits.
