April

Whilst waiting for the teakettle to whistle,
doodles overwrite themselves,
pitch black,
on grainy surface of white paper.
Maze of twists and turns,
round and elliptical,
draw a scribble of infinity.
Time is ticking away,
slowly,
never to come back again.
I allow my gaze to wander beyond the backporch,
spotting bright marigolds that remind me of you.
You planted those,
one chilly morning
of early april,
and then you left me alone
with my notebook wide open,
and the ink,
the poem,
halfway through.