Circulars and statements swiftly filed among the kindling
then an envelope from America.
I recognise the post mark and the hand writing:
a chapbook from my old friend Poet Red Shuttleworth.
Everything else can wait but this. I tear open the seal
and out comes a sunset cover with blue December floating
in the depths of orange.
I smile at the inscription and start reading,
the curtains still drawn and the crystalline lights
on the Christmas tree pulsing like a ghost’s heartbeat.
I start on a journey still in my dressing gown, my face blurry
and I’m done by the time a cup of coffee
is plonked on the table beside me.
But the unpacking of the words lasts all day –
as if the day was a page that needed filling
with dreams and visions before it was time
to close the curtains again
and pick up from where we left off:
half a moon in the garden
making mirrors of the outhouse windows,
the frost on the grass powdering my boots
as we do indeed go ever onwards.