|Ian C. Smith|
The blackbird that eyed me, pecked my window,
has gone from our jacaranda's mauve haze.
Spring has gone, birthdays gone like money spent.
Several glossy celebrations have gone
worn-out clothes, the river's water, dropped plates
trees, pregnancies, cats, dogs, a horse, passion
school holidays, not to be repeated
because those children, already wiser
thoughts, ephemeral like a dying friend
cannot be exactly the same again.
If my old eyes concede, it is just fear.
Don't mistake this for illogical greed.
I don't crave eternity but panic
at the thought of going to sleep alone.