you gave me the gift of solitude
I called it loneliness
but it was solitude
and you gave me the gift of constant longing
I called it brokenness
disrepair
but only the gift of constant longing
could keep me searching endlessly
for what is always here
everywhere
bridge between two islands
a place of meeting
and of tryst
touching
and desiring
and doing without
things are not the same
now
I garden
read
never looking up
even at
a flutter of wings
often there is only me here
now
and one place mat
where there used to be several
but birds still sing in the
high hedgerow
at dusk
when service is over
windy day on the ridge
imagining myself on Hampstead Heath
forty years ago
when friendship meant more
than the contact list I have now
winter sits thinly on the bough
some deer bolt the clearing at the sight of me
I turn for home
and a solitary tea
thankful for friends I never see
spaces appeared on the shelves
as the time of departure drew near
reminding me of when you first arrived
to draw back the curtains
and flood the place with light
so too
intervals in conversation
as symptoms grew worse
speech harder
now through a chink in the curtains
only a thin strip remains
of the day
I pull them together and withdraw
to the meaninglessness
of sleep
Another Way of Saying 