They all lie there
In the bottom of a drawer
My past days
A trip here
A trip there
A journey somewhere;
Some birthdays
Long forgotten
Some sad things
Old and rotten
Times by which I must not be late
Deadlines that defined my fate;
Covers blue, black and grey
British Summer Time
Next year
Last year
Clocks forward, clocks back
Days in a neat little stack;
And now, unloved, they lie
No longer of importance
These little bibles of my time
My to-ing, my fro-ing
Once to my pocket married
Once referred to, once carried;
And when you finally come across them
You will look and wonder
But only briefly
Only fleetingly
To think of that day
Before you throw them away.