October lockdown night, Glasgow

Sitting up in bed, again I try to read a book.
Letters fly off the page,
incomprehensible.
Late night butterflies
in my head and my heart.
On the wing, free.
I close the book again.
Close my eyes.

From the dark beyond my room window
a young man sings a few words and notes.
But I cannot hear what he's singing.
A new folk song for an old age?
Imagine him, sitting at a window,
the sash wide open, a leg dangling over the sill,
a ciggie dangling expertly from his lip.
The tip glows, darkens.
Glows, then darkens again.
The ash and spark in the air
spiral up, up.
Join the stars.
He sings, purely.
Still, I cannot hear his words.

The song ends.
The sash window is persuaded to shut.

My thoughts are like paper ash,
settling then drifting in the air,
settling once more,
only rising again and again.
Feel the rhythm.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Slowly, breathe in, breathe out.
Go deeper in, deeper yet.
My thoughts settle.

And there you are.

Yet, I do not know you.
We have not met, this I do know.
All those we have loved gather silently
in the shadows
at the edge of this room.
Your hands close around mine.
Your eyes bring new worlds to me
and mine to you.
You smile, delighted to be here in this room
sharing air and spark with me.
I am loved and love you.
But not yet, not yet.       

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