Life, the delicate balance - joy, living, sadness, knowing:
No rôle; no person as guide;
Only the decanter, here, as there where decades ago, we played
That Summer of Sun when your studies were books
In the river-fenced garden and we, feigning wrestling, kissed
To love.

For two decades past, such immersion with Life:
One being-becoming from experience, mistakes
Since my selfish dream so stupidly selfishly hauled me

    While you married
    Keeping your father's house

So many questions
Which the long walk on a cold Winter's day I hoped might solve
Knowing, feeling - warm breath to cold air - the yearning
That left me speechless:
Warmth of one woman
There was snow then, falling,
While I walked:
Too late the footpath
Where trees, bush, blossom, languished
In white.

The dead are gone, with so many today so lifeless with living
While we, here, are as we are: failings, feelings, future, promise - fun,
For Life flows, until we are dead, or live as the dead:
No answer, as this river is only a river
Until its water reaches to seep into
        Death seems very
But there is Port
        Such a splendid vintage
And clouds, passing, bringing
Life, Summer
From Sun.

DW Myatt