How grey it seems to you and me today.

Overthinking what I’ve done is not ad-

-visable: it’s done and dusted, over.

But now the paper waits for me: to tell

my friend what I have done.  But it’s too soon.

Multi-coloured vehicles flash past and

leave their blurry trails behind my blind eyes.

Perhaps I’ll pass the time of day with my

TV and hope the postman isn’t long.

Or I’ll take a bath.


Shakespeare wrote in fives

like this, but longer

and with style.  Do we

revere his genius

for style, because he’s

dead, his writing’s old

or are we simply

jealous of success?