Countdown

When time runs out
when tides roll in
when the whisky’s empty
also the gin

when the countdown reaches single digits

when the red rain’s pounding
on the roof
when your interrogator’s
near the truth

when everything’s still, but memory fidgets

when the past’s
poised to strike
when deep cracks
criss-cross the dyke

when you’ve learnt there are no Mr Fixits

when there’s no one else
to blame, or betray
when the countdown stops . . .

another day

Tom Vaughan

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Tom Vaughan  would be pleased to hear them.