Some remnant living in muscle memory
is pressed, dressed and polished each time
he marches, slowly now and with tired bones,
to the Legion for his Friday bingo.
I spent last night in my valley.
Green and peaceful, it is.
Slow wagons of unburdened past
creak slow down berry-bright lanes.
There's a blue harmony to Summer rain,
Its subtle rhythm suits the mood I'm in,
A pulsing tempo, a liquid refrain
A slope of rising road
gains on the pair of us -
Dusty birds and drunken bees
Along about now
old Day pulls the covers up
and whispers night-night.
We take slow trains to London moving clack-
clack past back door and yards sculpted in junk
with treasure troves of things they thought they loved;
sheds and beds and secret hiding places,
A zillion miles of night
caress the little star.
One amongst countless
it shines, knowing only itself,
Visiting you, weeks into your illness,
I almost passed your bed
so unlike yourself you had become.
You saw me, but propriety
Bar-room murmurs a dripping beat,
loud with sounding brass
and heavy metal thunder.
Out of what has gone before
We hang by threads of destiny;
Too late to change or to restore?