A poem for International Women's Day...
Presents
For my love they are more
than souvenirs,
the presents she buys while
on holiday
for friends, relatives,
neighbours’ children.
Her art is in choosing
keepsakes matched
to the individual. Nothing
too heavy
in any sense, this artwork
won’t change lives
or be reviewed in magazines.
And not all of it will be received
as she hopes: thrown in a
cupboard or taken
to car boot sales.
Hit-or-miss then, although
she works at it
like a seamstress, a tennis
player, a pianist,
always practising, always
perfecting –
as the two of us do, keeping
fingers crossed
that our life together will
never be unimprovably
right. Thus we rehearse
for whatever we may achieve
becoming more fluent
in strokes we’d once have
considered
impossibly hard. Our daily
practice
is to find ways to please
with instinctive restraints
and I-thought-you-might-like-this
parcels
of spontaneities.
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