Ian C. Smith Gone 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. |