They were the quiet times
At one with oneself
A paintbrush
Or an oil pastel
Music on the stereo
Thoughts on love
Now to be replicated
Almost
With a pencil
Or a computer keyboard
Music on the stereo
Thoughts on what might have been
Settling for the peaceful
If somewhat mundane
No rowing on the lake
Or stumbling down the dunes
Music on the stereo
Thoughts on how life is
Peaceful
Calm
Serene
Morning sunlight
Onto and through
Autumn’s leaves
Light
Easy
Without weight
Gentle breeze
Blue sky
Occasional clouds
Energising
Thought-provoking
Life fulfilling
To sit
To write
To become the poet
You are not here
Nor ever have been
Though in truth
That other truth
You are never too too far away
Very many rearrangements
In this space
Which will be missed
Whenever you try
To reshape or revamp the future
Why give up
The gifts
Of the garden
Why expel yourself
To the downsized slides of life
Take the sunlight
Into your
Into your
Into your
Diminished returns
Leaf, flower, pane of glass
Soak up
Soak up
Soak up
The photosynthesis
Shadows
Steady and moving
Steady and moving
Steady and moving
Signifiers of life being lived
Leather bag
Worn at the corners
Worn at the corners
Worn at the corners
As also is the poet
So so late
Too too untidy with life
Yet love still flickers
Aware, fully, of its absence
Say it again why don’t you
For all of those first-times
Wherever, whenever
Aware, almost, that they have gone
He sweeps the dirt
From the flagstones
Just as he carved terraces
Into the hillside garden
