VII
 
 
As you fold
and crease your words
sheet upon sheet
a running commentary
flows,
ebbs and flows:
 
your present reading;
that playlist of songs
to sing in solitude;
reflections on ‘proper’ letters
and the lost art of spelling.
Such word-gifts . . .
 
. . . and you ask if I mind. . .
when what you tell me
fills those empty rooms
I put aside for you:
to live undisturbed
in my imagination house.
 

VIII
 

The end in sight,
the samples stitched,
book-bound.
Show me,
and turn the pages
in your silent way,
 
no comment required,
none given.
The day is closing.
Time parts: for a tired child,
a birthday meal,
and now your mother’s smile.
 
Whilst at work in her kitchen
you thought-visit
my peninsula home,
pondering a duet
of music and sea-breathing silence,
distance everywhere.
 
IX
 
White and Yellow,
the final sheet,
a sign to stop.
With the care and formality
of closure the writing
ends, with just
 
your name.
How else could it be?
There’s no other word
embossed on
these coloured pages
I pick up, I put down.
 
My fingers trace the braille
of your pen’s indent.
the pressure and print
of letters formed.
Your very touch now
lies beneath my own.
 
 
 
*Legend has it
that anyone
folding
a thousand cranes
may have their heart’s desire.
 
For now,
just eight orizuru
with words
of friendship
written on their wings.