Just for a milli-second.

In the sombre light of the kitchen,

this morning 

I lift the water filter jug,

like I do every morning 

to fill the kettle for 

my hot lemon and honey and ginger 

tea,

and just for a second

for a milli-second,

less than a heart beat,

I think 

Where does this go?

I'm holding it 

in the air

waiting

to know.

Then I see the kettle 

which somehow 

I'd missed, 

in its usual place.

And then I do know what to do

and I pull off the black shiny lid

and pour the water 

inside.

But that empty milli second,

a blank space 

containing a kettle 

which doesn't 

have a reason

to be,

haunts me all day.

Like a woodpecker

tap tap tapping 

the question 

into my head.

What if 

 what if

this is the beginning

of dementia?

Mine not Robin's.

And now

 there is no

me to

watch out 

for me

like I did for him.

How is that

going to

be?