On Turning 50

This morning I am 50
and I wait for new blossom
at the kitchen window.

There are signs.
Emergent pink wings
that flesh skeleton trees.

And I’m still here
in a scene
where others aren’t.

They have all been blown away.
Motes of memory
that are felt but not seen.

Kisses,
held hands,
tears.

I pour some coffee,
pat the dog.
And then you appear.

‘The fence needs fixing.’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow.’
‘Happy birthday darling.’

You touch my face,
hum a tune.
Then a silence.

The ache of what’s behind,
and what is yet to come.
Making us breathless.