The World Inside Wants None of This

They say you grieve because you loved,
Well I am grieving my streets and my trees.
I am craving the swish of the too-tall gumtree,
And the roughness of the rusted seaside handrail.
The electrical box and its' danger of death,
The weak Americano slurped with seagulls.
I miss the stench of cowshit
And the electric jolt of cornflowers.
I miss the threat of hail
And the March freshness needling my face.
I want to see if the lawn at number 37 is snooker tabled,
And the hedge at 72 is at ninety degrees.

Waiting is work and work's goals ridicule me,
and the intrinsic enoughness of play eludes me.
I have a limbic anxiety-
A predator is on the prowl,
Maybe watching, maybe not,
Maybe there, waiting for the right time to pounce, or not.
I am grieving how I used to play with time-
Let it flow and it will pass,
Or impede its' progress and ripples
Would reverberate an impression.
Or I could agree a target and fire an arrow,
I held sway, time was mine.
The world outside is over there
And the world inside wants none of this right now.