You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
of regular experimenting,
A pocketful of sympathy
Is really rather wonderful
To stop a scratch from stinging
Or a bruise from black and bluing
On this moisty Under Milkwood morning
I walked buoyantly,
through late summer bush.
I place the peonies on the windowsill -
a perfect present for the new mum,
flushed and furry-eyed on the unmade bed.
floating through frames
of Thirties celluloid
And on that last Mothers Day,
when the birch leaves
fluttered pale gold,
and the magpies chortled
Your perfume lingers on my clothes,
like the image of your small determined face.
You watched me hug him – your husband of sixty odd years;
Walking the dog
The sky blushes with russet light