Inner Things

October; when the last horse chestnuts fall,
some still in their spiny green coats.
You called me prickly, when I sulked last night.
I fell out with this year, you know:

I found grey hair, I put on weight,
the house; ten months for sale,
remained unsold; My lover nearly died,
whilst an acquaintance longed for death;
planned it meticulously;

No one could stop her.

On my doorstep, yellow begonias
still hang in vibrant bloom,
the last tomatoes, passionate red
in their ardour, cling to a withered bush.
Mushrooms, showing their rigour
overnight, soon multiply.
A thorny rosebush lets me pick
overripe rose hips for the jam I love,
pricks my finger, mixing blood and sap
With all the horror of a fairy-tale,
the story of my life; I wear my many spines,
some blunted, the seams split,

To use an image; just an image, dear.)

Beneath a chestnut tree I find
an oiled, brown nut; I carry it,
a perfect inner thing, within myself,
a shiny thing, to light me through the months.
You have less need for all those inner things,

for you protect so many of your shells.