words are more my thing
but I dabble in statistics
and the mathematics of probability.
Chance I call it.
I’m not often alone.
Not often silent, except
that companionable silence
when you’re lost in your thoughts,
but in good company.
Surprised all at once by a squawk,
a solitary moorhen deep in the reeds,
minding its own business,
today I’m out practising,
sitting alone in the sunshine.
Together, we come here often,
striding up the cliff-top,
dawdling through Kensington Gardens,
pointing out fading displays of dahlias
and falling leaves.
We order americanos at the café,
with a jug of hot milk on the side –
‘that’s hot milk, please’ – to make
our stay last a bit longer. Today, though,
it’s just coffee for one.
I consider a cappuccino,
a break from routine;
old habits are hard to break.
‘Americano’ I say, ‘with hot milk, please’.
Would I change if I were left alone?
The moorhen seems content.
Does it ponder the meaning of life?
A seagull soars into the blue –
does it know where it’s going?
Is it lonely – or simply alone?
Hidden in the reedbed, intermittent squawks,
squeaks, murmurings and splashings.
The family’s grown now; time
for a moorhen to find herself
till it’s time to go round again.
I watch a pigeon’s rise and fall,
that joyous leap into the skies,
launching itself, before gliding over treetops,
so effortless, so free.
Could that be me?
Julia Duke