A Narrow Passage
The steps sleep deep as winter,
and the trees, they sob with rain.
Fresh air kisses me as I make my
way down Church Lane. I walk
that narrow passage where north
wind bites memories thin,
and the brilliancy of winter sun,
reminds me of how quick the years
have been. Time it does us under,
and I wonder for my boys, each now
grown, each tall and towered o’r me.
All this, in that year when I turned 43.
Found and remixed text from Bleak House and my
Winter 1991 Journal from Bletchingley Surrey.