I’m having to produce a 14-line stanza a day if I’m to meet my quota. This is a true story:
Rhyme #11: Intimations
Between the ATM and Woollies,
death brushed my shoulder, had a word.
The voice was not a schoolyard bully’s,
but soft, you’d almost say it purred:
‘You’ll lose all this, perhaps not tomorrow,
but time runs out – beg, steal or borrow
makes no difference, you’ll be gone
as silent as a babe unborn.’
A baby sucked juice from a bottle.
A tricep showed a red-inked rose.
The checkout chaps had wispy moes.
The air outside was drenched in wattle.
The dog snapped at a passing fly.
One day all this will say goodbye.