A past
Which only you know in its entirety
Such a random collection
Of experiences, such as
Wiping the apprentice's steel-clad bench
At the end of a made-up working day
Meanwhile, you photograph the dawn
A blue-black sky with traces of burnt red
As seen through the bare skeletal tree
You remember the farm with three brothers
Across the main road
With highway repairmen and cycling upsets
It wasn’t meant to be a list
Neither for that matter an invitation
To anything other than your own interior
Where walls and windows are your doors
Wrapped all around you
To give presence to your present
That broken hand-made vase
From an art market in Greenwich
Too delicate for my clumsiness to maintain
The warm radiator has warmed the chair
Which has taken many years to understand
Or to come to terms with
To use the light of the table lamps
And sunrises
One glows as one dies
Under a sky
Cleared of angst and anger
If ever there was such a thing
Let it rest now
Brought to an end, by nothing more
Than the bottom of a page
