Writing the picture

 

Mistakes, like the ill-chosen furniture

Of the settled life, surround me now.

I am their willing prisoner.

They are my destiny, my vow:

The cigarette case, the divorce

The too-long lunch-time and the lunch-time horse.

But though it can’t be guaranteed,

There is a crest to every slope,

Forgiveness in another’s need

Of you, a need that gives you hope.

I’d take the bus to anywhere

To bring my grandson his old teddy-bear

 

 

John Fuller