There is a park where children play
and so did they, when in their hay day
Boys and girls, now widows meet
Down by the park where shadows creep.
Sunlight wintry in their eyes,
are cataracts, light refractions,
scientific over reactions.
Were this Eden, bathed in glory?
Here is Orpington, a different story,
same theme, a child whines,
I think of him.
Gathering dusty memories
Hour glass, mesmerises
I see his face eclipsed
where the sun meets its end.
When returned, tables turned
The old and the new,
My father, I am seeking.
Through my husband, son.
The battle won, the shoes he wears,
his jeans, even his smelly socks
bring him back, for a moment.
My son. “The living years” by Mike and the Mechanics
on the radio. That year, one Christmas past.
Shift shapes, years one blur,
like a train chuffing,
in the sunlight. I see before me
elements of reason, scientifically sealed from view.
The Turin shroud,
Each moment, we move a stone,
un-turning the new.
The same is always true.
Heartbeats never dance in tune
with each other, yet the same spiritual dance
like an old romance
brings me back to you.