There is a frost
In my garden
But also
In your life
How can I
A simple chap
Learn to thaw
In this moment
Or those other times
When I brought
The low temperatures
Into our life
Quite a conundrum
Don’t you think
Trying to be here and now
In the then and there
Rain and sun
And blue-black sky
Turn onto the new lane
On your way to the new road
We will drift apart
It is inevitable
How many nights of appassionato can sustain us
How many did before
A cold spell is on the way
What preparations should I make
What will you have in mind
Perhaps for suggestions
Will we drift apart
Is it inevitable
How many days of commonwealth can maintain us
How many did before
His shoes have yellow laces
She wants to dance in summer frocks
In this style they head off to the races
With little worry for their turning clocks
Thirty-six years later
Swedish Krisprolls in the cupboard
Port Salut cheese in the fridge
Two computers and a stereo in the sitting room
Thirty-seven, the first time of moving
The following year, a first trip to the supermarket
Yet the wine, the chilled white wine
Lost itself along the way
Psychologically, not physically
In the sort of depth of a passion
Towards, or away from, a profession or career
No, or yes, in that sense it was white wine
Do I read too much into your physicality
To replace fable with reality
Only I know, though I do do try
To let others in, on some of the goings on
From meditation
Through to lunch
With hardly a break
For doing good
Or helping anyone
But myself
Then
And only then
While cooking sausages
I decided to take a photograph
Of the sunlit trees
And the fields, covered in mist
Which means a few steps
Down the garden path
Towards the compost bin
Whose lid had been dislodged
And whose repair
Left lunch rather well done
