Monday, 9 June 2014

Sunny Days, Passing Storms

Many if not most of us have to weather a winter of the heart at some time during our lives; sometimes a winter that never quite passes, but surrenders to spring and other, kinder seasons of life as it proceeds to beat for the best rather than the worst of times. It is then we most need to be reassured that we are loved; it is love, and love alone, that comforts us and will see us through to another spring. It may be the love of family, friends, or perhaps a pet. Whatever, can there be anything sadder than a person having no love in their life to which they can turn for comfort and inspiration in his or her hour of need?

I once worked with a Home Library Service. Among many lovely people I visited on a regular basis was a very old lady who lived alone. I asked her once if she was lonely. She replied, “In the sense that I miss people, yes. But how can I be lonely for long in the company of so many ghosts who love me as I love them? Memory, you know, doesn’t have to be a well of tears. It can just as easily be a garden of all things bright and beautiful that will never stop growing unless you stop caring for them. Stop caring, “she added with a dazzling smile, “and you’re all but dead already.” 


Wintry sunshine, breaking through
a fine mist of fun things done,
summer places known, kinder times
to memory consigned yet gladly retrieved
now and then when we are lonely, to enjoy
all over again like a toy always kept
in a special place that’s yours, mine, ours,
for rediscovering things that matter
more than rose-tinted tears of self-pity;
the simple joys of peace of mind
secured by friendship’s hugs, kisses,
cuddles, confiding poems, making plans
(though they be but daydreams)
and caring about each other, even apart;
let fiction against fact conspire
to distract us and a storm break, together
we’ll weather whatever challenges
the dark side of nature may throw down
or a gossipy neighbour just across the street,
curtains (forever) unsubtly twitching

No friendship is surer than upon itself
freely feeding or love as enduring,
no matter that some seize any opportunity
to redefine, malign its intimacy...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in first editions of Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised edition in e-format in preparation.]

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