At first the sea-frets come spaced days apart
There are sunny patches in between
He barely notices it, his head and heart
Not synchronised the way they’ve always been.
But Someone’s moving things, he can’t find his key,
Names have been stuffed in a drawer Somewhere,
Worries can assail him, Sometimes he doesn’t know
Where he’s going, when he’s halfway up the stair.
Today he finds himself in the village shop,
No list, no bag, and he cannot recall
Why he is there, the penny doesn’t drop,
He’s on a clifftop, fearful he might fall.
The lighthouse siren wails, a warning shout,
As deeper fogs swirl in and blot him out.