Pine beneath my bare feet, a glass of
Spanish red in hand,
Adréas Segovia
plucking and fretting somewhere unseen
and a handful of receipts, ticket stubs and
post-its
now sprawled across my lap like rune stones
are kind enough to spare the time to stare
out the window - every poet's pastime - and
count
the leaves on the nearby trees which have
already turned
their coats inside out and their collars up
before leaping.
On the back of a hotel bill from August when
I could not have been further from
responsibility,
I tell them how I recalled when they
entered the world
and how much I enjoyed watching them grow
up
over cups of morning coffee or beers in the evening
and how they never noticed me watching as
they
danced like Gene Kelly in the rain as
storms blew
spring away so the drier summer months
settled in.
But most of all - as to not dishearten them
(you'd agree they have enough to deal with
as it is) -
I tell them not to worry, that I will be
here when they return,
a pen in one hand, my head in the other, a
smile on my face.
