I watched the faded daisies
on your nightgown,
the thirteen daisies.
A hundred washings
have muted their colours,
as ten struggling years
have muted our love.

I whispered, “Good night, Lisa…”
Your voice was distinct and clear,
as it always has been,
“Good night, Harry . . .
have you set the alarm-clock?”

You should know that by now!
I guess that ritual question
is a nice neutral way
to finish the day.
Can’t expect too much
after a question
like that.

Last week,
after an almost normal evening,
– we had guests and kept up appearances –
we went to bed and before
I reached for the light,
my index-finger carefully
followed the contours
of the thirteen daisies . . .
without touching the gown.

Yet, you knew . . .
When I came to number three
a slight shake of your shoulder
made it abundantly clear
that such a thing
you don’t appreciate anymore.

Eyes open wide
I listen to your breathing,
feel the rise and fall
of the blankets . . .
the rhythmic regularity
tells me you’re already sleeping.

I do not know
what you’ve been thinking.
Maybe – for a moment –
you’ve pondered
whether you should have
turned your back,
and not close another day
unforgiving.

Lisa,
I’m still reaching out,
not with a caress,
not with words,
but with my thoughts.

I remember the nights
when brightly-coloured daisies
lost their form and comeliness
as crumpled beside the bed they lay.

I guess
you had to read
my thoughts
too often . . .