There it is, that flicker across my mind
A butterfly walking, a tiny arm crawling
Looking for that thought I lost.
The pressure of a late snowdrift
In the middle of Spring
I am on my knees in front of the hearth.
Ashes to ashes.
There it is that lost thought.
I let it fly by, not needed now.
There she goes, my black and white cat.
On the prowl, under dark night design
Through my window, I could see a large fox
hear my father’s voice.
“There’s no need to panic, keep your powder dry.”
Dear old dad, dare I say, thoughts of him come back
Like a virus that needs a yearly jab…
© Anita Dawes 2021