picture a donkey contemplating an empty swimming pool

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spaces between decisions I fill
I fill with counting pesetas
feeling the tug of old tight jeans
when nothing is impossible
except late spring mornings
growling with buses and vans
the tap in the corner is chrome
there is a dis-attached hose
this stillness is my starting pose
no one put in a winning post
and dust doesn’t settle here
where all water was rain once
last year my favourite busker
played saxophone
Kate knew four tunes
Gerry Rafferty’s Baker Street
the other pieces have no names
and she played them that way
I am refusing to find out
proper nouns for funeral music
someone I love died March
every year, every year
between wilderness snowdrops
and cultivated daffodils