I do not ask for youth, nor for delay
in the rising of time's irreversible river
that takes the jewelled arc of the waterfall
in which I glimpse, minute by glinting minute,
all that I have and all I am always losing
as sunlight lights each drop fast, fast falling.

I do not dream that you, young again,
might come to me darkly in love's green darkness
where the dust of the bracken spices the air
moss, crushed, gives out an astringent sweetness
and water holds our reflections
motionless, as if for ever.

It is enough now to come into a room
and find the kindness we have for each other
— calling it love — in eyes that are shrewd
but trustful still, face chastened by years
of careful judgement; to sit in the afternoons
in mild conversation, without nostalgia.

But when you leave me, with your jauntiness
sinewed by resolution more than strength
— suddenly then I love you with a quick
intensity, remembering that water,
however luminous and grand, falls fast
and only once to the dark pool below.

Rising from the darkness,
the evergreen dilemmatic soul
waking from the displeasures
bound by reluctance.

And slowly it slithers
upon the filth in life
only to fall back
into the reverie.

Disgraced eminence,
of this priceless concoction.
Enigmatical views,
but doomed by nature.
Born to change,
with time , with people.
To stay phlegmatic 
as it writes its own destiny.

Dreams of falling into
the lap of luxury
like any ordinary soul.
But with a hint of transgression.

No robotic means,
just emulation.
Pulled by the ties of
prevalence.

Swindler of identity,
benevolent of jauntiness.
Passes through many loops
of croquet.
Yet saves its inscrutable soul
from the disrespectful world.

Your shrill sound echoes down the sickly fluorescent corridor.
I try to ignore you.
Its jauntiness jars.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket.
It bounces off the pain-bearing walls.
It exacerbates my claustrophobia.

But perhaps your music is soothing to some;
High happy notes inspiring hope of recovery
Or of a deserved restful sleep enveloping dear ones.

But I hear only the low notes.
Out of time with my quickened pulse;
A foreboding soundtrack to my deliberately slow steps.

But, I know you play for no pay.
Busking in this hospital for practice and charity.
And I know too, you do good both night and day.

For your primary instrument is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Wielded by your steady, practiced hand,
Rehearsed and well-versed in surgical concertos.

But, out of hours, your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allows flourishes and improvisations,
Best avoided during operations.

But, were you aware that for visitors like me
That the clarinet would take on a life-long significance,
Taking me back to bittersweet memories of visiting my Taidi.

Now, though, I am older and a little wiser,
My memories of him are more than just of hospital visits,
And I wonder, could I ask one thing of you?

Why no Rhapsody in Blue?