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.
And on that last Mothers Day,
when the birch leaves
fluttered pale gold,
and the magpies chortled
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
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;
I'm sorry you're sad
'I'm not sad.
Don't use that word.
Walking the dog
The sky blushes with russet light