ODE TO 2007
 

What was that,

Rushing by my ears?

Surely not the passing

Of another year?

A parade of recollections

Many more good

than bad

Spring in England

Egg-shell blue skies,

Sunlight every day.

A coronation walk

To Westminster,

Five hours following

The river Thames.

So glad

My pink sunhat

Came as well.

My cousins teasing,

My strange obsessions,

Taking us on a Tudor tour.

Peterborough, Hampton Court, Dover Castle, Kentwell Hall,

The prison chamber of

Sir Thomas More.

Spring cannot

Disguise the gloom,

Deep within,

The Tower of London.

My heart overfills

Resting palms

on cold, stone walls,

(No wonder More complained

Of winter’s harshness).

I imagine touching,

Where his hands once touched, too.

If only stones could speak.

Children's voices echoing.

Becoming softer,

The patter of racing feet,

Until somewhere

Out of sight

In this ancient cathedral

A heavy door creaks

Until it finally closes.

Stain glass windows,

Pierced by sunlight,

Flits and flickers light,

Like a golden butterfly,

Across a burial stone.

I stand in silence,

Paying respect

to Katherine.

Henry denied her

His wife, his queen,

But the heart of England,

Never.

Blink, we're in another city.

Sixteen days in Spain,

The darting flight of a dragonfly.

More castles, crowns of Queens.

The glare of a setting sun

As a matador wooed a bull

To its dance with death.

Such senseless brutality,

I wept and wished

I disregarded my Research.

My students' smiles and hugs,

Bubble's graduation,

Daff and Bubble’s first song,

Guitar and drums,

Life's a party,

(I think that’s what

They sing).

Glenice's book launch,

Treasured friendships,

Helping hands

Along the way,

Not forgetting Belinda’s strong cuppa.

Life's too short,

For just one teabag.

Montsalvat's green hill,

Its verdant grass

Budding with

humanity's hope

Gentle sunlight dappling

shadows

Upon young artists
Drawing in wonder,

Full of magic,

Trees and peacock feathers

everywhere.

Pinks and purples,

My portrait done by Cate.

No sound in the Art room,

But the rustle of pencils,

Wherever I look,

a picnic of Teddy bears

and bright eyed children.

November arrives

With long awaited news

My agent knocking on doors

for a book she loves

Falling Pomegranate Seeds

Will find its publisher

and fertile ground.

2007 was a good year.