The Present

a certain fold of paper,
quality of light;
a seemingly random mix
of colour and sound

some everyday action:
the cut of a blade,
stir of a spoon,
the turn of a key

nothing specific to grasp,
or touch, let alone name

but, just beyond reach,
is a half-raised sensation,
one beat of a dream
that might have been a month
or a lifetime ago

then my eyes sting,
my throat locks

today, as it goes,
I was wrapping a gift
when I tripped

poem © Celia Warren 2011