Awakening

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I've been mostly engaged in driving activities today, taking Jane up to our customary halfway-ish rendezvous with Kev at Stretton to complete her onward journey into Lancashire for a family visit. In the process, I've pretty much disengaged myself from outside events and the news, so, alongside the fact that I've driven 170-odd miles at a decent lick in motorway traffic, my motivation for comment is a tad low this evening: in fact, I can't think of much that I want to say just now; so I'll leave you with the single stanza poem that arrived, fully-formed, in my head on awakening a couple of days ago, which thus far I've only shared with my mate Steve. I acknowledge the obvious stylistic link to Roger McGough in the bottom half of it: The Liverpool Poets have been a big influence on me since I was a teenager, and I guess that it just filtered through in the unguarded, semi-conscious moments between sleeping and waking. Anyhow, here it is, an old man's view measured against the memory of his youth:

Death is no longer
Abstract and distant,
But lies in wait in
The folds of my sheets
Like a Highwayman.

Oriens Morior, Moriens Orior

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