It will pass
like the faint bat squeak
of an early bird call.

It is silent again
even as the dark
fades
and the white eyes of buildings
emerge
slowly gleaming
as they drop their grey veils.

But now the birds
are getting serious.
More and brassier
calls
as my first cup of tea
chills.

And I tum back
to Gwen’s poetry
wondering
how on earth she could write
so eloquently in hospital.

Her spirit
must have been
as raucously persistent
as the dawn crowing chorus
of her vicious adored
golden roosters.

Or she was cheating —
and the Bone Scan poems
were written
when she was well
and safely remembering
her Plague year
as she put on the kettle
and set out her shining
pens.