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.