I’m sure you have just passed by
and I missed you, in the shuffling,
there’s too much crowd in the house,
I am moving for now or maybe just
dreaming to be moving, I feel
reassured not feeling my own self
as solid as I believed once.
Things and beings are cast about
like slings, Hades behind the shades,
your things, our things, items
in dust and sun that can last
often more than a body can,
like handwriting, the flourishing
of a spirit though the pen.
Yes, they are handling with care
your cups, your favourite teapot,
the pictures with the ebony frames,
those above the sofa with the worn out
patterns of flowers.
There’s still the blue Aga,
too massive, can’t be moved,
I know you were passing near there.
I’ll be back in the summer...
no furniture? You know I don’t mind,
I’ll get a camp bed. I’ll be
in the kitchen, at the window,
with the crickets.
It will be just a short step
sensing the swish of your breath
and, filling the waiting of a night,
the starry buzzing of your outlines.
This is the poem I have, more than any other, revised and changed. In the years probably a different version appeared in this blog. Maybe it might be in tune with the theme David King refers after his latest posted work.