Catching the wind, like slowing a film
Where smiles merge with sad faces
Falling cliffs and raging rivers
Weaving in and out gigantic snowdrifts.

You’re not really aware of another day
Because each hour is sewn into your coat
Foxes die and fish look for defeat
Hares race and dogs silence every bleat.

There’s no looking back nor forward 
For in every turn of the night and day
More hours are kept, protected, hidden
Why were you waiting?

Was their meant to have been a special day
Was there the merest chance that delay
Would lengthen into decades strewn with spikes
Roads somehow lined with likes and dislikes.

Not taking any particular road – just any road
Speeding through avenues of aching
Stretching a moment as though of elastic
Underlining every mundane or dramatic.

Pause, like Shakespearean actors
Learning and re-learning
Shows shades of longing
For what no one knows.

No looking means not striding ahead
it means letting go of the wind
counting every second in the mind
casting aside each dull careless second.

Like a misused fishing net
Spelling it out really isn’t it?
I’m not really catching the wind
Not am I ever likely to.