And all I

can think

about is

the robin

lying dead

on the grass,

its beak

gaping open,

its defiant

red breast

castigating

the sky;

the backs

of my friends

as they laugh

on their way

through the dimming city

and I say goodbye

to a time and

way of life

in the half light;

the ache in my

arms from hauling

a door

we are struggling

so hard to

hang, a threshold

trying to materialise.

In the kitchen,

I turn to

‘The Lark Ascending’

and weep as

I chop the radishes

and spring onions,

a silent howl

as my tears pour,

once again

stricken

with the frailty,

beauty, terror

and despair

of living a life

in love and in

loss.

And whilst

I chop,

I hear my love,

he’s sweetly pottering and

planning in the

next room;

I feel my

moon circle,

with gentle,

loving solidity,

picking me up

as I stand

half-collapsed

at the sink

washing cups,

their hands

in the suds

with mine;

I am with the

smile of

my sister

as she examined

my ear

and accepted my

gifts of housewarming:

bread

salt

wine.

There are blockages

already beginning

to clear.

There is so much fear.

And the spirit of adventure,

it still whispers

my name.

*

‘The mystery of life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.’

Søren Kierkegaard