COLD

COLD

It might be a cold

It might be something worse

My hands feel remote

Fumble, fumble, fumble

I’m aching and tired

And sneezy and weak

And weary and all the other

Copyright-free dwarves

I know that within

A stew of vegetables

Is bubbling away

Bubble, bubble, bubble

Broccoli and Butternut Squash

Blending into a foul soup

To be served up later

In overnight hell

My legs are wobbling

I’m hot and cold and hot

And shivering and in

Trouble, trouble, trouble

All thinking gone

Reduced to dewdrop drips,

Clumsy fumbles, and

No sense of taste

It must be a cold

The headache throbs

The nostrils bunged

Double rubble rumble

The world confined

To a clouded head-space

A lonely distant void

To stagger through

Martin A W Holmes, October 2016