For Donald, at 85

in the end, it is the simple things that matter.
And the people whom we chose to love.
Looking back, in the deep shadows, and abyss of time (!)
What do you recall?
Dirty wet roads in London and NewYork
Hot winding streets in France and Italy,
And then — a face, a voice, someone to call ‘Friend’.
Meals in the sunlight, wine shining through glass
The scent of lavender blown on the wind
The raucous call of seagulls
Swirling high over a grey sea (that must be England).
Feel somewhat like Rupert Brooke, listing the things he loved about this world,
before he left it…
Stripy tigers, patterns of canals 
countless works of art,
reflecting the societies when they are made,
An unruly Dutch household, a black square…
And shoals of words pulled into a net,
sorted and some rejected,
One language finding echoes in another
weighing and wondering…
And then, visiting a colleague
and fresh-baked scones for tea.
In the end, it is the little things that count,
And those we choose to love.