Joy of missing out
I don’t need to go out doing things,
as the pace of it
puts demands on me
I will not meet.
I do not read the book
everyone talks about.
I do not watch the latest films
or box sets, nor do I go
to exhibitions or theatre plays.
No working out for me, filling diaries
or posting on social media,
for life is for living, as it is
passing us by.
I do the small things, enjoy
the pleasure of visiting garden centres,
walk the aisles among exotic flowers,
wander into DIY stores and look
at the power tools I never use,
the bird tables and fence panels
I never buy, the shrubs
I never plant.
I am content between
lawn-mowers and stackable storage boxes
rather than candles and incense
and make time at home,
where I sit in silence
and practice the art of doing nothing,
stare into space and let the hours run.
The interest lies
not in the difficulty of the doing
but the difficulty for the doer.
This is my vocation to do
what I cannot do.
Silence and I are close.
I know its eyes, mouth, its arms,
as it knows me, all my surface,
my edges and my levers.
I am not inclined to spend
energy on emotion, I just