Orlando

She went out with a growl and a spit;

not grumpiness, you understand,

but arthritic pain in her joints.

She'd been fading for the last few weeks,

great weight loss, her fur no longer plush;

but it was her eyes, they looked haunted,

not fear of death but fear of life itself;

the long day-to-day endurance.

We laid her in a bed of autumn leaves,

under the hedge, below the smoke bush

flaming its defiance into the sky.

The house still resonates with her presence:

her curled sleeping shape

her daily dash down the hall

her deep-throated purr.

Missing Edges

Many years ago I learned

about draughter's painters

who needed outlines

and painter's painters,

who merged colours.

It was good I appreciated both styles.

I am losing definitions

and inhabit a Titian garden.

As luck would have it

my memory requires words

to reconstruct an image.

When I now look at my walnut tree

it is composed of contours and colour

and long years of memory.

A good day

I have discovered how to have a good day: have a hideous day first.

Last Wednesday, my catheter blocked and the bladder with it. I can't have the catheter changed unless I am on the bed and I had no- one here who knew how to put me there so I spent the day feeling sick and feverish; I foetalised even worse than usual, and I am already 36cm shorter than I used to be, which gave me a very sore neck and headache. It was a perfectly horrible day.

So, Thursday felt marvellous; although, actually, it was no better than the Tuesday or Monday or the weeks stretching back behind me. And it was such a change to have had an illness that could get better instead of knowing that how I am today is the best I can be. For example, the nurse today acknowledged that the pressure point on my bum, which has been described as an iceberg, will not get better. All their energy is going into making sure it doesn't infect and the skin around it doesn't break.

Unfortunately, Wednesday was such a horrid day, I am in no hurry to have a second one like it, so I will have to wait a long time until I have another good day.

Yin/Yang

Silence and time are the yin and yang

of poetry: inward stillness

and the creative urge.

It may take days, weeks or even months

for ideas to collide in my mind

forging new combinations.

I may seem to be just sitting,

but it's the pregnancy of waiting.

A stillborn poem is no good,

premature is possible, provided

I can give it outer time

to compensate for the missing inner time.

What is needed is longish spells

without distractions.

Time and silence.

Common Ground

I am not pioneering,

nor charting new territory.

Each and every one of us

at one time will find ourselves

traversing the same terrain.

It's just that I speak freely,

feel compelled to acknowledge

every landmark, identify

each passing phase.

Many prefer to maintain silence;

very well, if they encounter my work,

they can turn their heads away.

I will be content if, one day,

my words can bring comfort

to one person in dire need.

Pain killers!

Today I faced a turning point:

do I continue on my journey

or compromising myself,

swerve aside on to a path

which might take for ever

to rejoin the main highway?

Such choices occur four times a year.

This time was easy: I followed

my usual routine and decided

not to make a decision,

which sets me free until July 1st

I am still on track, no asides,

no interruptions

For Ever

Because Paul was so young when he died,

and had such a free spirit,

I couldn't bear the thought

of his being in the dark ground

so we scattered his ashes on the hills

where he has been filled with light,

held together by snow and ice.

As I approach my own ending,

at times I feel sad that not anywhere

in the world is there a stone

that records his short life.

My most recent wistfulness

was brought on by a keening gull.

I thought of my own death; my grave will be

on land which will remember me,

where I've walked barefoot countless times

as a child, the brow of the hill,

above the ocean, with a stand of trees.

The gull's lament a warbler's trill

will be my companions

for the long silence.