I never get sick of the violets and greys
Even so, I love the yellow splendours
best, the first flowers of the year.
The suffering is, there; soft, a clean score
that sparks memory, trembling the years;
the scent of hair. My sorrows
are bitter, hard; to bear: friend,
I’ve nothing, no way to tell it, but this
. I’m no
host, I know, but a good man
‘s welcome here.
6 November 2015