Painting ©Bernardien Sternhelm
Is there happiness to be found,
to be picked up for the asking,
plucked from random moments
and the bustle of other people’s lives?
It used to be there,
packed in books and chocolate,
and sauced with the scent of Christmas pine and pudding,
or filling the hours spent sifting pebbles and pond life,
while the world stood still and held its breath.
What remains of that wonderment
that filled to the brim the vessel of content?
Cloud hangs now on the horizon,
fear of tomorrow at every fiery sunset.
Grains of sand in the machine
grind and grumble through the blackbird’s song,
once beauty pure enough to stop the sun in its course.
The world is full of shadow,
and the limpid mornings,
the golden afternoons,
the birdsong of another time,
an echo growing fainter by the year.
When the darkness gathers
and the ricochets of broken dreams
fall thick and fast as bullets,
and the veil of fog on the river will not lift,
I reach out and touch your hand,
the pivot, the centre that must hold,
however thick the darkness grows
and the sunlight cold.