Aubade

Woken up or still awake, the grass frosted,
Thinking out loud he says:
'Maybe it's cos I don't read enough'
And ideas of cannons being primed
In fiercely frozen fields take off
And crash soon after pen hits paper,
Fuselage looking soft in the early rays,
Kerosene spilling out and the flames
Making a mockery of hard, cloddy ground.

Let's try again, this time fix
On the loyalties of that age, print them out
Almost factually the first stanza; research it,
Be deaf to the clarion of social networking,
Do the work. That plane idea was interesting,
Flesh it out.

                      But no. Apparently not.
Music or something or mazy thinking
Grant that horrible few seconds of uncertainty
When it shouldn't be enough but might be.
It's always enough. 'I need more sleep
And to read more.'

                                  For now, the gauze
He's written about before, and resents
Referencing, again descends,
Like the biggest duvet cover
You will never find the corner of.