Happiness.

Happiness.

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;

if anything,

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

and smile,

and read.

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.