A time of quiet, of gentle play —
if not forgetful of serious matters,
at least a laying of them by.
It’s true I need respite
from work, from intensity of feeling,
from remembered pain.
Luckily I have my small cat to remind me.
I haven’t been giving titles to my small daily poems, but a sevenling is supposed
to have a title and it’s supposed to be in the same format as this one.
Today I remember some sad girls,
poets and rebels, two different girls,
who each disappeared, for their own
sufficient, unknown reasons, long ago now —
but we were friends, soul sisters,
so I thought, so they said —
and I miss (I still miss
after so long) their unique light
in which broken shards of glass,
their shattered hearts, achieved such shining!
About to take
a necessary risk,
puzzling over how,
I finally remember
the many angels
watching over me,
and waiting only
for my request.
I’m so slick and nifty
at getting the word puzzles out,
I know I’m not demented yet,
nor likely to become so.
(It’s different with mental arithmetic
— but always was.)
Watching a programme
on great Aussie foods,
suddenly how I hunger
for the long-ago taste
of a Chiko Roll,
or a so-hot-it-burns
Four'n'Twenty pie
sloshed with tomato sauce.
