by Richard Vince

In the gentle, West Country light of
That summer, everything looked new
And laden with possibilities.

I lay on the bed in the corner room
For hours, deciding what I would do
If only I had the time and money
Of someone of a greater age.

Now I am more than twice as old,
I find myself repeating the process
As though I may actually
Do something now I’m here.

My ideas and ambitions are
The same, but the reasons for
My inactivity have slowly

All that is left is my own inertia.
I have only myself to blame.


Posted on 05/28/2012
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince

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