Cold Ink

Then circle slowly on thin ice

In the rink, the dancers blink,

Whirl round and pirouette,

Skating past on thin ice,

The show’s not over yet.

Words I wrote, begin to float,

In dreams before my eyes,

Pastimes turn to people,

Much to my surprise.

Further on, some dead and gone,

Rise up and live again,

Etched in imagination,

Arrive on the next train.

They walk, talk and then in chalk,

Write things I often think,

Then circle slowly on thin ice,

Scribing remnants in cold ink.

Written like an epitaph,

The script seems like a list,

Of long bygone epistles,

With some details missed.

I stand like a spectator,

A tight hold on the rail,

And peruse the daily news,

Some win and others fail.

Life is like a lottery,

You need to buy to win,

Or screw the ticket up, and then,

Chuck it in the bin.

I settle down in dressing gown,

And write the words I think,

Then file a pile of pages,

Preserved in ice-cold ink.