When I look back
over the past few years
and think that almost every day
has had its own new worry
or some unexpected version of the old
I’d like to think
that the years ahead will be different
and that we will not sit at the end of the next
or of some year after that
thinking how every day still has
its worry, little or great,
but I know that this is hardly likely
while you are who you are, and I am myself,
and the world around us continues
the way the past has shown us that it will,
and I know too
that knowing this
will do nothing to still the stubborn voice
that will always come within me to the world's defence:
wasn't it in February
that a great moon filled the garden half the night
with light so strong you could read by it?
wasn't it September when the honeyeater
built in the vine outside the window
and the strange birds came
singing all day in the fig trees
and all the night also?
wasn't it only a week ago, for reasons
you could not explain at the time
or even remember,
you turned, and smiled a particular
smile as you entered, and your face
and your hair smelt of rain?