She rang me in the middle of the night, speech slightly slurred,

scurried, slow drawled, concerned and with heavy patience address.

“I worry about you, I believe you will write yourself to death

one dank and dark December day.”

The hint of concern overflowing and verging on future grief

overwhelmed me briefly and

I paused for thought, after all the hour had not long since departed

three, half a pall bearing team I thought wildly with a wry grin,

I wonder where the other half went, perhaps to make sandwiches, after all