The House We Share

1   Birch      The birch boughs  do not stir or sigh  though the world  is spinning.     Oxford, March 1998        2  Here Comes The Spring I’d Stop     Here comes the spring  I’d stop,  the buds  I’d freeze  before they fleck  the hedgerows to a haze of green;   here comesthe shining grass,the bulbs,the early blossom,the tips of growthswelling unstoppablyon the ends of brancheseverywhere; this is the springI’d halt, returning time to a timebefore we knewyou were to die,so we could play those daysover again,painless and manageable,discreet carriers of a worldwe could understand,and of a god still one of love. England, March 1998  I’m Not The Exile You Know I am not the exileyou know,thrown upby a distant coup, thrown offby a war,thrown outby a sudden dictator, yet my countryhas vanished too, its room reclaimedfrom far away, its colours no clearerthan I can keep them, its daily patterns tracedbehind each day. Oxford, May 1998  With Micky Tonightthe air is dark and smooth;we sitrecovering,the room muffled,cooledby an air-conditioner; and how I need you,your still arms,your sound,your smell,and tonight,especially, your love, your fingersbrushing my foreheadlightly,brushing it, bringing backa lost fortressamidst the pain. Aswan, April 1998   Daylight Nowthe summerdoes not wait, will not wait, cannot; nothing stopsthe lightflooding ahead, flushing outthe end of day London, May 1998  How Do I Make You Laugh How do I make you laughwhen the bad newswill ever come, when you tell methat she fell on the half-step, or could not sleep, or slept too much;  how do I make you laughwhen you tell meshe could not eat, that it is harder to find the airto make the wordsshe wants to say; that the machines have side effects,that now the drugs do nothing, that she is dying, fully awake,in greatest need, yet always – always – as she is: how do I make you laugh then,when our world is broken? Oxford, May 1998  Being There Sometimes this early summerhas tricked me out of grief,fetching me into a worldwhere the disease has retreated,taking with it each terrible promisein its long, random decline; you move in your wheelchair still,but the fear of losing youhas been pushed backat least a dozen years: you can still enjoy the garden, travel,watch your grandchildren grow a little older,enjoy the ordinary rituals of love - and be there –always – for me. Oxford, May 1998   Tiger Hourly your dyinglies between us, a crouching tigerpoised- even as we hold you – when you struggle to rise; when you fight to rest; Oxford, June 1998   Where I Am You are not dying here. From where I amI see you walkingon the terraceabove the Adyah, kicking water in anL-shaped pool, playing tennison the courtby the banyan tree. you are not dying here; London, July 1998  Station I expect you now,this evening,at this – and every - station, walking out to greet me, your simple movementclaiming each platform, each airport, home; each city, town and village; claiming each space -for us, forever; I expect you now;I expect you here. Plymouth, July 1998    What If What ifwhat youwantedyou had? What ifwhat should bewas; what if? What then? Oxford, August 1998   Remembering It’s not my painthat hurts, but time, moving again just next door; the voices of childrenrise and fall, call,as you struggle for breath. It is time that hurts. Time. Oxford, August 1998  Phone Call Although your fingersmove a little lessyour strong voicefills the phone,charges the line, charges me. You are not old enoughto be dying; stay: you cannot go. Oxford, August 1998   This Lovely Month This lovely monthis full of death; how do I hold the day,to halt the night I dread? Oxfo...

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