Monday, 8 April 2013


Running in circles in a Preseli field,
I was holding on tight while you pedalled the bike,
Not letting go; until I finally did let go,
And you became Icarus, six years old and flying down the hill,
Finally out of sight round the green lane’s corner.
The whole afternoon held its breath. A gorse pod popped.
And there you were again, waving like a loon.
All this was ours. At night we named the stars,
Tracing Orion’s belt over Dinas Head
As the mice rustled in the hedge.
There was still magic back then,
When you first found out the world’s unfair,
But the hurt could be kissed better.

These April nights, sometimes the clouds part,
And the old familiar shapes appear,
Orion, the Pleiades glow, Cassiopeia;
And there’s the comet that I hoped to see,
Faint there over Filton, soluble aspirin of a star,
Too dim by far to warn of bloody war,
Foretell the fall of emperors.
But bloody wars there are, and emperors do fall.
And for some hurts there is no remedy.
Tonight, I look beyond the stars and see more stars,
And, further, even more, until the sky is deep enough
To fall into for ever.
But we have shared the stars, and just for now
I tell myself that that’s enough, and wonder if it’s true.