A bell is striking in the tower outside.
Whose chair this was
I have quite forgotten.
Before my slow feet
the glowing carpet spreads out
the garden and the peacock.
Someone a long time back
wove in four paths to meet
at the fountain in the centre
and there the radiant bird struts
forward to bow and drink.
This cold, unsteady heart
lifts with the bell strokes. Yes,
the pathway worn across the carpet
can be stepped, foot after foot
and onwards to the door
and who comes now or,
maybe, went before
like me is quite forgotten.
Roy Ashwell
