Orchard

Having spent the last few months in France Robert has been absent from his circle. Here in Kentish Town we have not forgotten about his poetry or him. I was pleased to get a postcard of The Seine at Christmas with a typical Rob offering scrawled on the back:

The bed stretches towards the window
where the Gallic light filters
through wooden blinds half closed,
and the lamp has become an electric rose.

I have lived a thousand lives already -
this one no different except for you, no longer steady;
your scented hair where all my senses flow
walking beside you - my hands tremble to go

as bees to lavender or birds to reach
the glossed cherries, yellow or turning red.
The world assembles the stillness of an orchard
in dappled sunlight falling on our bed.

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Happy New Year to you, Rob. We miss you at the Meeting House.