1   

Birch   

The birch boughs  

do not stir or sigh  

though the world  

is spinning.  

Oxford, March 1998  

2  

Here Comes The Spring I’d Stop  

Here comes the spring  

I’d stop,  

the buds  

I’d freeze  

before they fleck  

the hedgerows to a haze of green;  

here comes

the shining grass,

the bulbs,

the early blossom,

the tips of growth

swelling unstoppably

on the ends of branches

everywhere;

this is the spring

I’d halt,

returning time to a time

before we knew

you were to die,

so we could play those days

over again,

painless and manageable,

discreet carriers of a world

we could understand,

and of a god still one of love.

England, March 1998

I’m Not The Exile You Know

I am not the exile

you know,

thrown up

by a distant coup,

thrown off

by a war,

thrown out

by a sudden dictator,

yet my country

has vanished too,

its room reclaimed

from far away,

its colours no clearer

than I can keep them,

its daily patterns traced

behind each day.

Oxford, May 1998

With Micky

Tonight

the air is dark and smooth;

we sit

recovering,

the room muffled,

cooled

by an air-conditioner;

and how I need you,

your still arms,

your sound,

your smell,

and tonight,

especially, your love,

your fingers

brushing my forehead

lightly,

brushing it, bringing back

a lost fortress

amidst the pain.

Aswan, April 1998

Daylight

Now

the summer

does not wait,

will not wait,

cannot;

nothing stops

the light

flooding ahead,

flushing out

the end of day

London, May 1998

How Do I Make You Laugh

How do I make you laugh

when the bad news

will ever come,

when you tell me

that she fell on the half-step,

or could not sleep,

or slept too much;

how do I make you laugh

when you tell me

she could not eat,

that it is harder 

to find the air

to make the words

she wants to say;

that the machines 

have side effects,

that now the drugs 

do nothing,

that she is dying, 

fully awake,

in greatest need,

yet always – always – as she is:

how do I make you laugh then,

when our world is broken?

Oxford, May 1998

Being There

Sometimes 

this early summer

has tricked me out of grief,

fetching me into a world

where the disease

 has retreated,

taking with it 

each terrible promise

in its long, random decline;

you move in your wheelchair still,

but the fear of losing you

has been pushed back

at least a dozen years:

you can still enjoy the garden, 

travel,

watch your grandchildren

 grow a little older,

enjoy the ordinary rituals of love

- and be there –always – for me.

Oxford, May 1998

Tiger

Hourly your dying

lies between us,

a crouching tiger

poised

- even as we hold you –

when you struggle to rise;

when you fight to rest;

Oxford, June 1998

Where I Am

You are not dying here.

From where I am

I see you walking

on the terrace

above the Adyah,

kicking water in an

L-shaped pool,

playing tennis

on the court

by the banyan tree.

you are not dying here;

London, July 1998

Station

I expect you now,

this evening,

at this – and every - station,

walking out 

to greet me,

your simple movement

claiming each platform, 

each airport, home;

each city, town and village;

claiming each space -

for us, forever;

I expect you now;

I expect you here.

Plymouth, July 1998

What If

What if

what you

wanted

you had?

What if

what should be

was;

what if?

What then?

Oxford, August 1998

Remembering

It’s not my pain

that hurts,

but time, 

moving again

just next door;

the voices of children

rise and fall,

call,

as you struggle for breath.

It is time that hurts.

Time.

Oxford, August 1998

Phone Call

Although your fingers

move a little less

your strong voice

fills the phone,

charges the line,

charges me.

You are not old enough

to be dying;

stay:

you cannot go.

Oxford, August 1998

This Lovely Month

This lovely month

is full of death;

how do I hold 

the day,

to halt the night 

I dread?

Oxfo...