The rain pitter-patters outside
onto the plastic-roofed conservatory.
It is warm in here.
Wounds gracefully close
like flower buds.
Knock, knock, knock:
in varying tones;
the music of the clouds
is by me.
It tells me that everything will be fine
and that each voice
is there to encourage.
I met a girl today
who talked to me about W. H. Auden
and wouldn't look me in the eyes
when she talked to me:
she seemed beautiful
and slightly tragic
but her beauty swallowed that.
I'm sitting here with nothing to do.
How glorious is such a thing?
I could do anything right now -
stand on a mountain or read some poetry.
If I've learnt anything,
it's that death isn't necessarily always dignified;
it never is.
Like I once heard:
sometimes the Sun shines into our yards,
and sometimes we notice it
and feel it warm on our backs
like a welcome hand
or the spirit of a sexless god;
but only the brave and beautiful
grab the sunshine by its lapels
and swing it into their lives.
Go to bed
Make tomorrow glorious.
Promise never to look the horse in the mouth
unless you have to inspect its teeth.
And always complement it
on the pinkness of its tongue.