Now's The Time Poem by Grahame Lockey

The image is of feet
at the unshifting edge
of a dirty reflection.
Two scuffed shoes
side-by-side and stared-at.

He takes an overdose of water.

Later
punt-banter comes
across his blanched and bloated
fleshbag of a body
near-foetal
in the river water, laughs
tail-ending into shrieks
and reassurances.

There comes a time, when dreams,
cut short like power,
dwindle to a point so penetrative
bubbles burst
and nothing, unhankerable-after,
breaks to something less than itself;
when what was true,
no questions asked,
turns false
and there has to be one
swift last letting go.

When we can no longer
entrust our hopes to spring
words are like dead seeds to us.
And yet, more sense is left in questions
if there’s no reply.