Everyday Night Poem by Jean Renwick

I’m by no means a fantasist
I can be honest with myself –
My life is tempered by self-pity.
It’s why I’m so shy
and can’t communicate feelings
It’s why I underachieve.
It’s my muse, my crutch, my raison de être.

But I’ve been suffused by God – for want of a better word –
High on a mountain in Switzerland;
In seeing the unbearable perfectness of the very young child.
I believe in the bone-achingly deep connection of soul-mates.

I’ve had grief touch me that way;
I’ve had writings, novels touch me that way.
And music.
Now I want love: my love for another
And another’s love for me
To be at home in my physical core.

I’d like that.
A head resting in the soft-skin valley between chin and shoulder;
An anytime contentment memory.
But there is no-one;
There never has been.
Not only the dark has lonely hours.