What if, on a dopey day in June
nothing got done?
What if, pointlessly languishing,
I was undone?
What if, in an attempt to get it all right
nothing quite was?
What if my questions were left,
unanswered
in the space between us?

What if the best laid plans
were laid to rest with their fathers
where bones fill a valley
and shadows pave the way
for the coming of the Lord?

What if, in between lawn mowers
and heat stroke
I was just plain bored?

What if this day that will never come again
is a tear drop on my desk,
drying as tears do
into a slightly oblong
salty sphere of dried-up compassion?

What if my what ifs are pointless
toothless and tame?

What if the only defence I have
is the echo of your name?

And what if putting it all in writing
means too much emphasis is placed
on the fleeting function
of tricky days
once in a blue moon?

What if there are no blue moons
but only a sliver of a sickle
ready to reap a harvest of hope?

What if honesty is uncomfortable?

What if faith is not so much
a brick and mortar wall
but a dry-stone structure
of ever-setting and re-setting
fractures and disparate realities?

What if tomorrow this doesn’t matter
and I have carved an image
that refuses to fade?

What if it all belongs
and all that matters
is the echo of your name?