For Wendy Cope
I may not have brought you flowers,
I know that I was always late,
you tolerated my moodiness,
and laughed off my ever-increasing weight.
You said that men were like buses,
and you had grown weary of waiting,
putting up with my madness, my silliness, my inane fusses,
though neither of us barely knew if we were even dating.
Ah! But we weathered the storms, your patience has always been saintly,
and now that we are old, hunched-over and grey,
the silly fights are recalled only faintly,
for I love you so much more now, and you are so much more beautiful,
than you ever were,
on that very first day.
The Swaying of the Grass
A path leads,
to where wild grass grows,
sashaying in the summer breeze.
Along the path,
lightness settles within,
feeling the grass,
swaying to the lilting bird-song,
in a dance of intimate abandon,
brushing the remnants of pain away.
Melodies float across fields of green,
delicately caressing my heart,
teasing emptiness to flee,
comforting the mind,
to silently be.
savouring the peace,
a momentary respite,
from the burdens of the now,
all is quiet,
a stillness cradling fractured emotions,
the grass in the fields sway,
nudging dimming light to take leave,
of the day