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.