By next morning spring was pushing backthe clouds, deepening the creases wherethe farms were tucked away while the goddess,risen above your bed in white appliqué,offered her protection. (What was she playing at?)Like discontented winter next to spring,your cardigans, grey as post-war Britain,droop beside your gold Tibetan shirt.I found it beside your bed, the ceramic headthat Terry gave you, handsome butcher’s son –friendship’s clear light of day stitchedlike Dante’s stars in heaven’s blanket duringlong talks late at night. Two policementurned up at your flat with your addresstucked inside his pocket. He’d bought a ticketfor the Underground at Kentish Townthen threw himself under – the scream he’d cutin clay fixed forever. Time’s passagewayreverberates with the voice of George V‘I thought men like that shot themselves’as Leonardo’s Lady, ermine twistingon her arm, gazes through the window(which window shall I choose: round or square?)to where a lacquered bonnet, dotted whitewith freshly fallen snow, floats acrossthe view as Master Bashō, staff in hand,sets off for (or is coming back from?)Irago. Forgive this. Forgive my foolishness.Bless me as you once did, ‘now and always’.For March light is entering your roomand April light and May light, and soon the summerweather will kindle Pseudo-Dionysius,Thom Gunn, The Life of Proclus. The ducks have flown(walked more like!) between two muddy ponds.I wish that I could shake your hand, call youby our intimate, by our everyday address.