Pen, old friend, 

you once danced with me across the page

as if we were weightless, unafraid. Our conversations

passionate and desperate,

barely a second to breathe between

colons and commas and the dreaded full stop.

The years have slowed us, haven’t they?

Now we pause on the page,

savour the silence.

Or have we forgotten what we wanted to say?

Back in the day

we spoke as if uncovering

all life’s intimate secrets, the meaning

behind the rain

behind the way a person’s face can change

in a moment.

I’ve still not seen much, but enough

to know we’ll never break life open;

the sound of its heart would be deafening.

But we can talk about the weather

forever, laugh

for the joy of a watercolour morning

or the mud crust on the inside of my son’s rain boots.

We don’t need to discover new truths

when life’s beat is loud enough

from here.

So let’s sit down together, old friend. 

It’s okay for the ink to dry.

We can sip our coffee in sweet silence

and breathe in the morning sky.