Time

If I had to write a poem to save my life
it probably wouldn't be this one
that wildly points at the daffodils in the vase on the table,
swings round to include the dark logs
and flying flames in the fire box.

Instead the poem that's on the back of the tip
of my tongue when I wake up
and don't know the time
would suddenly spill out of me
onto the page - loud
like rubble from a tipper truck.