So to start a month of poems, here is a sad one.
Looking back, it all lined up
like summer solstice at Stonehenge.
Pennies dropped like a safe’s tumblers
in discordant clicks,
clues turned into clarity, him Watson,
reality an exasperated Sherlock Holmes
explaining the abc’s of logic;
she had not,
for a very long time,
All was panic and vacuum
in breath and reason.
He needed to be at every point
in the universe, finding her,
talking her down
bringing her home
but his muscles lost their memory,
only held him in elegant collapse
at the kitchen table,
eyes fixed on the letter.
This was a kindness, she said.
They only aped happiness, she said.
He would have to be brave, she said.
Here in cursive script
was care and regret,
gentle revelation and
blameless parting in blinding, loving logic.
For years he would marvel
at the kisses and familiar post script;
“Dinner is in the oven”.