Because

Slowly, yet surely, the dark side fades

A new joy approaches, given the opportunity

We all have spaces open for recovery

Thankful to see the daffodils

Beside the driveway at Blackladies

I was cared for there, I was loved there

A small sadness enters

For my hosts will have passed away by now

Gone off to their promised land

For they did, together and separately

Share a faith

Which served them ever so well

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So

We met on a London street

Three, late middle-age men

I was just a bit apart at first, with my notebook

But then I joined Patrick and Gerard

Patrick, pristine in neat Irish plus-four tweed and brogues

Gerard in a well-cut, navy barathea blazer, as befits a Bretagne man

They were old friends, socialites from the Sorbonne

Patrick had bought a place in St Johns Wood

And thought I was just the man to help him renovate it

I told them a story which I had heard on the radio

During my train journey to the capital from the North

Apparently each time a golfer putts a golf ball

His putter is layered with psychic memory

Eventually the energy levels of the layers combine

And now the putter will not putt, however much the golfer tries

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Develop

The longer sleep

Increases the stiffness of the body

Yet offers energy to flex the supple mind

Always one thing or another

Always a price to pay

However much at ease one sits

Remember then this light of March

Think back to the breeze over the garden

Transfer the here and now to way back when

Soon we will have the blossom with us

Then the showers, which will so so quickly take it away

Yet one foot may still step in front of one other

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Importance

The chair is quiet

An electronic device, one of them, sounds out

Perhaps a reminder, or an alarm, or a message

I will sit awhile in the quiet chair

And who knows, forgetfulness

May fail to remind me of the earlier interruption

Just as I was settling

To write a few pleasant words

To put myself and the word in context

One step before the next sort of thing

As the sunlight strengthens the shadows

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Risen

Am I obsessed, or am I tired

Can I talk of nothing more

Than what I see, or imagine

The dust motes do not seem

To share this confusion

Seemingly happy

To float

Wherever the light

And the thermals take them

Neither any problems, apparently

For the rainbow-like reflections

On the ceiling

Which emanate

From the crystals

Hanging in the window

Outside

The early morning grass

Is frozen; yet the sun

Which is now rising

May soften the crunch

Of those later footsteps

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