I do not speak of new love, though it be
The favourite food of poets down the years:
Small wonder, for it comes so easily –
The stolen glances, furtive kisses, tears
Of tender souls just started down the path
That leads through trial today to bright tomorrows;
The jealously and joy, regret and wrath
Of hurting hearts, long leavings and sweet sorrows.
No. I will speak of love that, summer-born,
Has lived through many winters – love grown strong,
Deep-rooted and protective as the thorn,
Enduring as the earth, sure as a song.
Such love stands when all else is overthrown.
The only certainty I’ve ever known.
This morning brings
A triple killing:
Smothered with a grey cloud blanket;
The cracked ground
Drowned and beaten to a pulp
And my long run of hot, dry roads
Murdered in cold rain.
A summer born and dead too soon.
And the garden sends flowers.
I started down it
I’m glad to be back
Here. Faces were familiar
Seemed pleased to see me;
Just as I left them
And every breath was charged with scents
Unchanged by clock or calendar.
I found the surface breaking up
Sharp shards of recollection
Getting in my shoes
And best forgotten
Dug up and left along the roadside
Heavy traffic coming fast
Round blind corners
And no sign that suggested
It led anywhere at all.