U.A. Fanthorpe


Not knowing even that we’re on the way,
Until suddenly we’re there. How shall we know?

There will be blackbirds, in a late March evening,
Blur of woodsmoke, whisky in grand glasses,

A poem of yours, waiting to be read; and one of mine;
A reflective bitch, a cat materialised

On a knee. All fears of present and future
Will be over, all guilt forgiven.

Maybe, heaven. Or maybe
We can get so far in this world. I’ll believe we can.