STOP

At the end of the path the gate was open, open to the road beyond where my love had gone.

I had been trifling with some little thing I'd thought I ought to fix;
A screwdriver was on the table, a tube of glue also,
and the pair of specs I have to wear when doing something fiddly.

I suppose I heard the door when my love turned the key;
I suppose I heard it open, and closing when she'd gone,
But being otherwise engaged,
I senselessly carried on,
And only sensed I was alone
When silence awoke my senses.

I saw the gate at the end of the path, open to the road.

I had been trifling with some little thing I thought I ought to fix,
But as my life clung to the wall and slipped
Inexorably to the floor,
I saw, too late, the broken thing
I'd for far too long ignored.