From California

Sunday night in the house. The blinds drawn, the phone dead. The sound of the kettle, the rain. Supper: cheese, celery, bread. For company, old letters In the same disjointed script. Old love wells up again, All that I thought had slipped Through the sieve of long absence Is here with me again: The long stone walls, the green Hillsides renewed with rain. The way you would lick your finger And touch your forehead, the way You hummed a phrase from the flute Sonatas, or turned to say, "Larches--the only conifers That honestly blend with Wales." I walk with you again Along these settled trails. It seems I started this poem So many years ago I cannt follow its ending And must begin anew. Blame, some bitterness, I recall there were these. Yet what survives is Bach And a few blackberries Something of the "falling starlight", In the phrase of Wang Wei, Falls on my shadowed self. I thank you that today His words are open to me. How much you have inspired You cannot know. The end Left much to be desired. "There is a comfort in The strength of love." I quote Another favourite You vouchsafed me. Please note The lack of hope or faith: Neither is justified. I have closed out the night. The random rain outside Rejuvenates the parched Foothills along the Bay. Anaesthetised by years I think of you today Not with impassionedness So much as half a smile To see the weathered past Still worth my present while.