Clearing up

You go in and the telly's on;

but nobody watching.

Go through to the kitchen -

know you'll find him there,

Making tea;

Or in the garden through the window:


It's the mess that's left behind that

causes the most distress,

but it's not a mess, it's not a mess,

And I don't mind, I don't mind.


Someone's dug your roses up

and the greenhouse has gone.

It's a lot to keep up,

Things must move on.

But your tomatoes,

And those beautiful melons,

So ripe and suggestive

in their cut off tights to hold 

them up they were so heavy.


We loved your curly cucumbers.

You tried so hard to keep them straight,

But they were unruly in their

waywardness. A bit like me.


I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,

For all the unresolved loveliness,

Such an abundance of beauty

in everything surrounding me

that is here now,

And in dreams and memory.


A surfeit, sometimes a doubling,

Nowhere specific for it all

to go ; the spaces

we leave behind must

be filled with another thing,

Old things be put aside,

Or they will stuff our cupboards,

Cram our minds.

Fill us up too much.


Over time,

Places will empty,

And fill again,

A tide of some sort,

Washing things up then,

Taking them away again,

But always,

Traces of history,

All of its facets,

Ghosts of experience,

 Will remain.