Our conversations were like paths.
We wandered through the woods,
pushed through brambles,
found the sunlit clearings.
The woods seem unfamiliar now.
Being there without you
is like searching through maps with shifting paths.
Map after map.
Each one blurs and fades away.
Everything You Left is on the Table
on the death of my father
The pencilled harmonies that dance across the staves.
The five-nibbed pen I gave you,
not thinking of the day I’d find you’d saved it fifty years,
the day I’d take it back.
Your music’s all been written now.
I gather it and place it in a file.
Judith van Dijkhuizen
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Judith van Dijkhuizen would be
pleased to hear them.