On Days like These

On days like these, my thoughts gather like dust

landing on water, blown there by a gust

of my imagination. Silent, still,

and not yet seen, these motes lie mute until

I pick one up, as pick one up I must.

It is an old thought, perishing like rust;

a memory, and one I cannot trust

to tell a truth. I let it fall then fill

my hands with other thoughts: hope breeds goodwill

on days like these.

I go through all the thoughts and readjust

my view of ‘self’ (again): they’re full of lust

for the surreal and absurd. Their will

is to sing in rainbows with a shrill,

facetious voice which rings out (only just)

on days like these.