As snow transforms foliage into icy fingers
the bus crawls caterpillar-like up the hill
the seagulls’ feet thump on our flat bedroom roof
and greenfinches wait in an orderly queue
to swing on bird feeders in our cherry tree
and hymns of the faithful reach a crescendo.
You are propped up on clouds white fluffy pillows
knowing that your life is coming to an end
later we watch shafts of silver light
pirouette over the dark green ribbons of the sea
like a final performance, dancing dancing
to that final bow and rapturous applause.
from ‘The Puppeteer’s Daughter’
This poem was prompted by the wife of a very dear friend, Rosemary, dying soon after we moved down here. Our fondest memory was camping with her and her husband near the lavender fields in France, a year or so before she died. We all made films and belonged to the Orpington Video and Film Makers Club, Happy Days.