Face the open window, make collages of clouds
Add lovely garden things like fuzzy felt
In this, your second infancy
Wake to a plume of starlings or a finch
on moss dark walls where shadows collapse
into wishing wells
Draw pictures in your head of all your years
Taste English plums that bring them rushing back
Until wood-doves sing your lullaby
Currents from another place, soon will tug
But as you ebb from this, your final summer
Let your last breath be inwards
