In the silent hours

In the silent hours, desperate
to get home from the desk and the
pressure, door shut, locked,
no-one here, vacancy excepted.
I put on the TV all the noise
and colour it drowns it out
can't do anything, too restless
no place of peace, can't fix
on it, the thing to do undone
too late.  Too much thinking
denigrates my life and there
are no words forthcoming of
'I forgive' that would make it
all ok and all the years
would fall away, the sun
come out and we'd be 
in the garden again, surrounded
by beauty.  Nothing to forgive.
Nothing done, expected.  I would
be there with my toys, white
socks, little dress, schoolgirl
smile and uniform - tie neat.
All the promise lies ahead and
not behind and all the people
there in the night sleeping
peacefully.  Just like now but
unconfined by space and time,
the ticking of the clock and all
confusion of being human,
living in a hieroglyph that is
untranslateable: meaningless.
We could sit on the garden seat
and love it.  Talk of the day
and what we'll have for tea.

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