70

Uncertain

As to where time alone might take me

I did not stay alone so very long

From behind the curtain

As if the love of my life forgave me

I show myself to stand square, and be fairly strong

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69

There is sun on the snow back at my B&B

There is sun through the weeping willow back at my B&B

There is peace in the trees, trees without leaves, back at my B&B

I vowed to steer away

And steer away

Is exactly what I've done

I did not go in search of longing

I did not go in search of loss

I did not go in search of yearning

I did not go in search of cost

Instead I found friendly faces

Who turned around

And asked may I help you

As they complemented me on my bracelet 

There are good memories of this day, back at my B&B

There are ladders, and drains to mend, back at my B&B

There are owners, also known as friends, back at my B&B

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68

Retail therapy doesn't do it for me today

I find a flaw in the construction of the oak bureau

And so it is moved from the must have to the might have

But only if it's a bargain

And at close on seven hundred it isn't

Unlike last seasons Christmas lights, which it seems

Must have been substantially overstocked

They are discounted, significantly, extremely

Although in February, even though it is my birthday

I have little need for shimmering imitation chandeliers

I did see tables for the stables, but, yes I know another but

But I am quite unable to act unilaterally in this regard

And so I move on to the coffee shop, which nowadays

Unlike the days of my youth, is filled with young mothers

And all manner of pushchairs and carrying contraptions

It is, I have to say, almost the equivalent of those food pubs

Who have two for one pensioner days, just to prove

Or so I think, that pensions are keeping pace with inflation

Starbucks was no place for a struggling writer

Not that I am a writer, but if I was it would be a struggle

Not a penny, actually just one penny change from five pounds 

For a small Americano and an even smaller bar of granola, yes

I know that granola is a diet sin, and that I have to pay for my sins

But to pay through the nose, that smells more than a bit shifty

I drove back through Eastwood

Not specifically to see the schoolgirls smoking

Or to be surprised, by the young boys in anoraks

Entering the valentines card shop

It was the satellite navigation that redirected me

Apparently there was an accident on the direct route

I saw a white van, stopped by the police for speeding

Or maybe for something more sinister; I drove on by

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67

My hands have a white sheen

As though the mornings frost

Wants

For a prolonged reception

Or that the China clay

From all those years ago

Wants

To have one more chance

To polish me off

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66

I knew the sky was beautiful, big and blue

I just didn't know how to take the photograph

I knew I fancied to live my whole life with you

I just didn't know you thought I was having a laugh

I might eat potatoes

I won't eat hay

I might drive forever

Till the end of the day

I saw the sadness in her eyes

Her soles hardly left the pavement

She shuffled along in her bland clothing

Could I help her

Would my words help her

Might it help to talk

Does it always help to talk

I listened to Helen Dunmore

Reading her poem Wild Strawberries

In that one instant the thought

Of the almost violent beauty

And the ever vigilant pain

At the very extremities of love

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