The Gift
 
 

Stunned by the joy and terror of a new pulse surging,
hostage to your breathing in a midnight cot
or the pain waiting with childhood as an alibi.
What did we know of the prize
that would make us human and keep delivering,
insisting on throwing colour recklessly everywhere.
The street to had to learn fast that your discoveries
would ignite the tired and renew.
You must have been the earth rod
for the blue music of silence that descends
when two people are abandoned together
in a flat of gas heaters and condensation
facing north where red brick factories
clung to the echo of forgotten workers.
Where a thin garden grew rank weeds,
crowding flowers out beside the disused railway.
The old photos show you trying to be sure footed
on our shifting sands, which rips the heart
before I was visited by the old turbulence
which flung us onto the high road.
But you threw back some forgotten love
which must of overflowed
to bandage the ancient wounds
and set us all going again, laughing at ourselves
with some approaching joy.
Living life like some kind of prayer
in gratitude for the gift of ordinary existence.

 

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