Small things

Lying in bed
Things start to slide
Would it be alright?
Are there still things to hide?

Is everything in order?
Are there notes unsigned?
Are there indiscretions
For others to find?

And what will be missed
When they pull down the blind?

Midnight air
On an August night
Beneath the plane trees in London
The sun through a window on a rug on the floor
Dust by the kerb
A green flaking door
Sky through a rusted gate
Small things

Is it too early?
Is something not done?
Is there a moment
That could still be won?

Through the glass rooms
The fading beat
Familiar faces
I will never meet

And what will be missed
When they pull up the sheet?

Need I be here?
Was there a different book?
I scan the pages
For one misplaced look

Maybe if I'd once said 'No'
Spoken to a stranger
Walked through a different door
Turned toward danger

And what will be missed
When they close the door?
Turn the key
And walk away