We blew out the Sun and went on our way home, in your eyes I saw death, but in mine you saw none,
left alone now.

The window was opened and fresh air,
fresh where it used to be
came flooding in to cover me with the scent of the pine tree,
the chutney of corn,
that was the day that death looked,
I was born.

Three score years on and that long ago and still I know little about nothing I know.

Time still stands with the latch on the gate,
as to when it will close
I will wait
and see.

We blow out the Sun again and the bright lights of memory lane come flooding in to cover me and still in the time,
still working the line,
I breathe easily.