Simon Curtis
Quince
The quince-tree’s in leaf, and shadows the bay window;
Two blackbirds skitter about
Above the first lilac and windblown red tulips
You say you can just make out.
You can see (more or less) how the ground at the back
Has begun to get overgrown,
But what can you do, with your legs so unsteady,
At ninety, and now on your own?
You peer at the garden, its brightness and shadow,
As springtime renews with a will.
Just the two of us now, who were four, left to hear
The quince-tree birdsong still.
Page(s) 18
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