Becoming Sundials

I am trimming my life back,
taking a train away
from cluttered expectations.
Maybe all I need can be carried in a single bag,
a backpack, hands-free,
walking towards some as of yet
unknown destination.

I remember taking the tube into London,
walking up and down Charing Cross Road,
lingering inside the Silver Moon Women’s Bookshop,
my fingers touching titles,
choosing a slim volume of poetry
to read with a cheap cup of coffee
(that I would make last).
Back then, the dream was to expand,
expand from a one-bedroom flat to a house,
expand from a couple to a family,
fill space and time with plans,
more furniture,
a second fry pan.

With birds leaving the nest,
soon we will look to condense,
let go of large boxes,
duplicate kitchenware,
and too many sweaters.

Becoming Sundials

Perhaps London will welcome us back,
at least for a visit,
tube train doors opening and closing,
the world now changed,
our swift feet a bit slower,
hands held, arms swinging,
with no need for destinations or plans,
just a cup of tea,
a willingness to let time pass like molasses,
the rushing of pulse
slowed to the sound of passing minutes,
our bodies unmoving sundials
on Hampstead Heath.