Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Up
And down
Cutting
Quite a dash
On
And on
Pitching
And ploughing
Here
Then, sitting
Right now
Almost on the beach
For our Myrtle
1944-2021
Silently we sat by the sea swell
Knowing the pleasure
Of the howling wind