Time should be standing still.
It’s four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. The soft pre-spring sunlight is warming and relaxing. Around me children are jumping and running on stone walls and grass nearby. Yelling and shouting and sometimes falling : any of whom could land on me. I vaguely notice that they’re playing with foam mats. I can hear the slap nearby any of which could hit me.
I’m aware but not worried. I’m almost imperturbable for a change!
I’m reading poetry. Not mine. That of a fellow traveller.
A few days earlier, she had introduced herself. She then said she wrote poetry. I laughed in joy. And completely forgot to introduce myself! Yet two days before that, as I then said, I was introduced as a poet. And as I failed to add, neither then or now, I didn’t argue or try to soften the impression.
The children play and nearly run into me. But I don’t sense a danger. I’m too busy reading someone whose thoughts I cannot ever imitate, whose words I can never replicate, someone not unlike me.