I met two Chinese professors today,
older than me and dressed warm.
Kindly, unmarked and tender.
A drift of rain on a grey sea dawning.

A few small thoughts, barely moving between us.
Waves of age and gentle laughter,
autumn and dark winter on the long journey.

It set me on to wondering how to deal
with age, and how the hell to make it.

How can I still breathe with the trees,
challenge the mountains and dance with the snakes?
And still remember the girl in the blue dress,
waiting for me by her bedside.

Beneath a poets pen,
I hold these thoughts, day-by-day.

Knowing is far from enough, and
new forms from secret harmonies
skim the early morning silence.
In the evening longing has its own quiet place,
the nearest thing to being alive .