What if my song will not grow
There is nothing to do
Do not look at the sky —
Never look at the sky!
Julian felt he was approaching retirement.
He’d noticed how annoyed he was getting
at other people’s driving,
To wake up each morning
the cloud of that water-stained
ceiling hanging over you;
I curtain the difficult memories
in earth tones,
Twenty one years ago I locked my front door
on a Friday and drove to Felixstowe
not knowing, I told myself, if I would ever
to this small space of river,
is like opening a favourite book,
at eight o’clock
she had, in his words,
the good grace to pass away.