The night train

of thoughts,
but then you reminded me of
all those things that had blinded me
when all that I find to see
is you.

Memory is trickery,
a bit
‘hickory dickery’
when the clock is
against me.

If age is the slipstream
then the jet age was
my dream, but
I woke,

flamed out and tamed
tired out and drained
watching the kites
sailing by.

© 2019, John Smallshaw.