I watched the sun moving round the kitchen,
an early spring sun that strengthened and weakened,
coming and going like an old mind.
 
I watched like one bedridden for a long time
on their first journey back into the world
who finds it enough to be going on with:
 
the way the sunlight brought each possession in turn
to its attention and made of it a small still life:

the iron frying pan gleaming on its hook like an ancient find,
the powdery green cheek of a bruised clementine.
 
Though more beautiful still was how the light moved on,
letting go each chair and coffee cup without regret

the way my grandmother, in her final year, received me:
neither surprised by my presence, nor distressed by my leaving,
content, though, while I was there.