from Pen (elope) with love xxx

Walking down the street at 49, the city is Paris, springtime. A wind picks up the winter dust around my feet and blows cherry blossom at me. I look down at my shoes; a petal has landed on the tip of my black trainers and sits stubbornly, accusingly. 'Have you forgotten?' I quicken my pace and stamp my feet; I'm in a rush to get to the Sacre Coeur for a midday rendez-vous with Susan. The petal is still on my shoe when I climb onto the snorting metro and squeeze through elbows, bags and backs to a free space. As I stand there, holding onto the cold metal pole, the petal slips to the floor - a speck of softness in a forest of stiff human legs. Without thinking, I reach down, gather it into my palm and gently enclose it, making sure I leave a little pocket of air for it to breathe. Cherry blossom? No, I haven't forgotten. The English cul-de-sac was lined with cherry trees that blossomed every April. Everything behind the trees was seen as if through a pair of pink-tainted glasses. The air was so full of the brightness of the blossoms that it wiped every kind of sky clear of any grey. The trees functioned as wings, curtain and backdrop to our childhood play: bicycle races, obstacle courses, tree climbing, street chalking and picnics. We would play for hours and hours, stopping only when our mothers called us inside. We were happy-go-lucky children in our pink-coloured realm, protected from life backstage, full of rickety steps and trap doors. Those trees witnessed everything including the first flirts and fights; they also enhanced the red on our cheeks when you unexpectedly plonked a kiss on my twelve-year-old lips and your sister slapped you for it. It was also under the cherry trees, ten years later, not in England, but in Washington DC that you proposed and I told you I did not love you enough to give up my job, move and become your wife. My dear Peter, I am at the Sacre Coeur and have just met Susan. I was surprised when she called to say she was in Paris and wanted to meet up - we have had little contact over the years. She never did like the fact that you loved me. She was standing waiting when I arrived. She grabbed me, pulled me to her and kissed me on my lips. I was not ready for it - are we ever ready for anything in life? I often think I am but then I stumble and fall over the same step and realise I am stuck in a never-ending rehearsal. Then came the slap… strong and sharp; a swift sword jabbing the accompanying words deep into my heart as if she wanted to kill me with them. She thrust your letter into my arms and left me standing there, staring at the Sacre Coeur. She always was the most dramatic girl I ever knew. I have always loved you Peter. You are part of my history, my childhood. I am sorry I did not marry you all those years ago, and that you found no other solution than to end your life. This cherry blossom in my hand is all that is left. I shall take it into the Sacre Coeur now. Perhaps my words will find their way to you, wherever you are, and bring peace. This is my prayer.

What is a poem? What is sacred or real? Could it be the heart of a moment? The beat or brief pause between? That split-second we hardly feel as our in-breath turns to leave? Sometimes, I perceive an interlude, a space; a rare instance of grace as my mind slows down and takes a break. Here, I enter in and briefly glimpse as if through rapid eyelid blinks, a breath fanning my face like the flutter of a fruit fly's wing. Can we understand this tiny thing? Or that there are moments in which life is full, complete and vast, despite knowing it will not last? Can we grasp that this fragile thing is showing us everything we need to know? Can we believe this to be, simple and plain poetry?

My dad has a motorbike. He loves it because it has lots of what he calls horsepower. I’m not sure what he means; he’s not so keen on horses. In the summer, he often rides past a field where there are two black workhorses and if the farmer is there, he raises his fist at my dad and shouts. I asked Dad what the farmer is saying and he said that he is probably saying 'Don't frighten the horses'. I laughed because my dad only zooms past the horse’s field because he is scared they might break free and knock him off his bike. 'That's ironic.' says my dad. I don't know what ironic means. I just think it's funny. Dad's motorbike drinks gallons of thick golden petrol. I like to watch him pour it in and listen to the glugging sound it makes. I practiced doing the same with my soup during tea and asked for extra portions so that I could get the sound just right. My mum was watching me with a deep frown on her face and said, in a cross voice, that I was eating like a pig and then, in a less cross voice, that I might be growing and was eating like a horse. I didn’t care whether I was a pig or horse. I was just glad that I sounded like Dad’s motorbike. When cold weather comes, Dad goes out on his motorbike less and less. He spends a lot of time in the garage cleaning and polishing the bike with wax and a soft leather cloth. He then drapes a woolen blanket over it so that the engine keeps warm and the dust doesn’t get into the parts. Every day before he goes to work, he looks at the thermometer outside. If the red liquid inside the thermometer is below number 10, it’s too cold to take the bike. Dad says it’s not good for the sinuses. I agreed; you can’t see the signs so easily when it is frosty. Dad insists that it’s his nose he's worried about, not his eyes. Anyway, this morning he came in beaming and so I knew that the thermometer had given him permission to go on the motorbike. During breakfast, Mum and Dad were having a grown-up discussion. I wasn’t listening until Mum said something about changing horses in midstream. I wondered what she meant and when I saw Dad's face become sad, I knew that it had something to do with the motorbike. Dad said he had to take the car because he’d promised to pick up some groceries on the way home. Dad explained that changing horses in midstream just meant changing your plan in the middle of it. I think Dad is wrong. Changing horses in midstream means having to take the car instead of the motorbike. I know that spring has arrived when the daffodils are out and Dad lifts the blanket off his motorbike. The metal shines like armor and the blue paint is as deep and beautiful as the sea. I know the motorbike is happy when Dad takes off its winter coat and strokes the seat, because it smiles at me. Dad says it is only my reflection in the chrome, but I think the motorbike really can smile. I wanted my bike to smile too and so I polished it up nice and bright. I told Pete, our next door neighbour that I have a bike like my dad's. He didn’t believe me and when I showed him my pushbike all sparkling like my dad's motorbike, he said that mine was a horse of another colour. I thought about it and realised that he was right: my bike is red, and will never be sea-blue like my dad's. Mum has said that if I continue to grow as fast as I have been doing, I will need a new bike. Now I know what colour I shall wish for. After the long winter in the garage, the engine is too cold to start straight away. Dad has to push with all his might to get the bike to the top of our drive, climb on and then let it roll down as fast as possible. If he’s lucky, the engine will bump into life first try. If not, he has to keep on trying until he’s exhausted. Mum says he’s flogging a dead horse, but I know that Dad's motorbike will eventually start roaring. When it does, my heart dances and my legs go all wobbly with excitement. Now I know what the horses feel like when they are finally let out of the stable after the long winter. Dad calls it frisky and it’s what he’s frightened of. Dad keeps on correcting me when I call the smoke coming from the pipes at the back 'perfume'. He says it's exhaust fume not perfume. It's extremely poisonous and you shouldn’t breathe it in. Mum tells Dad off for getting on his high horse about it. I think that they both talk a load of rubbish. Dad is only on his high horse when he has his leather gear on, is wearing his Darth-Vader helmet and sits on his motorbike full of horse power.

Rise early! Walk through the woods at dawn, or in the dark; befriend mosquitos, spiders, dank places and the mind as it drives through all kinds of weather. Set off each day for its own sake! Love not knowing why, or where you are going; listen well to the whisperings of the leaves, of the trees. Find a brook, or forest stream and watch its waters run towards lower ground. Go swimming there and let yourself be taken to humble places! Forgive the rocks for tripping you up, the whirlpools and eddies for turning you around and the currents for taking you where you do not wish to go. Ride, glide and dive deep without holding on - even to your breath. Hand-in-hand with yourself, fall over this waterfall and that waterfall. Remember to surface for air! You are human after all and drowning is possible, as is waking each morning to a walk in the woods and a dip in all this sacredness.