Small Joys

My daughter visits today...we sit
at the kitchen table ‘pedalling away’.
We talk about her sister – our memories;
that we can’t believe how long it’s been now.
She asks me what I’ve done this week,
and I tell her, ‘nothing special’.

I like it that way...the way hour follows
quiet hour – stacked one on the other
as deckchairs on a winter’s beach.
Many projects I’ve started – perhaps
a spot of baking...letters to write.
Then again, tomorrow will suffice.

Sometimes I walk to the top of the hill –
see how tall the walnut and Scot’s pine
have grown. Planted seventeen and eighteen
years ago – when my grandkids were born,
which bear a tag with their names on.

Stand and watch the planes cruise over –
‘Easy Jet’ in and out of Luton; feel
a sense of relief that I’ve nowhere to go.
I’ve done more than my fair share
of travelling, living out of a suitcase...

brown, creased and battered – seen better
days. A bit like me; bursting at the seams
with mountains, waterfalls, and canyons...
promises made and broken; brown-skinned boys
in Speedos – voices preserved in brine.

If longevity has taught me anything
it’s that the joys of my life have little to do
with age. They don’t change; poetry, painting,
and music – sunlight, filtering through leaves
and remembering when I guarded my children...
soft and sleeping.