Prediction

The days flick past on travel cards
A counting down, a counting on,
The swallows circle above red brick flats,
In clear blue sky scorched by morning sun.

The weight of what has passed already,
The sights, the touches, spoken words
Cannot outweigh the mass contained
Within the months I’ve not yet heard.

So I try to simply face each day
For now leaves are falling as I breathe
And grey clouds circle above red brick flats
Where once the swallows used to weave.