She is in agony, in agony.
She is my own flesh and blood, for my life.
Now she sits, her face contorted from pain
Stranger to me, as she were a statue.
She would go to bed, before the night becomes
too long. I help her to stand up and
proceed down the corridor together;
not, I sigh, without some difficulty.
Helping her undress, she is patient
- as always – and meeker the worse she felt.
How I longed to do… anything for her!
Then, before she went to quietly sleep
I kiss the tender cheek, mutt’ring “Night, Mum.”
and slip back into the child I had been.

It is a bus: ye olde busse,
- for a penny a ride -
with conductor hat and all
at the entrance standing tall.

As the bus stops by the bus stop,
climbing on through open doors
I can hear the metal tinkling
and the buzzer saying “ring”.

Also the bus – this time more modern -
takes me along past all the world:
Sitting waiting, screech of brakes,
on again, past shops and lakes.

Stop the bus! I rise to leave;
press the bell and say “Thankyou.”
The doors slide open with a hiss
and out I step onto the grass.

A bus starts up and carries on.
No longer do I see;
as I step off alone
the bus carries on.

A hurt that cannot find words
it is so long remembered. Yet it must;
for even now it speaks within me:

Not resentment, for the wound is healing
though I will not help it; so more effectively.
(Wounds heal best just naturally,
not by unintended infecting
of them. Is that not so?)

So, therefore, I must
find… or rather “have”
such words to express myself.

Now it cannot be forgotten
so I am no longer obliged
to remember – just for myself!

Not resentment; for there is no one to resent.
I will not fall into that old vice: of claiming
- even if only to myself – that any are aiming
at infallibility. I must not expect at present
- or ever – too much. Else be disappointed.

Not to be disappointed in those I care for,
those I love and respect;
not to think too highly, too often, except
in commendation: to praise more.
As I ought to, should do, must do more.

One final word and that will suffice.
Less negative emotion, please! Optimism
and self-confidence. Yes, I have succeeded.

That boy over there is my brother.
He can sometimes be quite a bother.
Yet I love him really
for all his tomfoolery,
tho’ I’m glad I don’t have another.

Teach me how to cry
- I’ve forgotton.
Only the pain I feel:

Like a gravestone
pulling me down
’til I sink.

I long to cry
and be rid of this longing;
fall over the brink

of sadness. To weep
my worry away.

Forgetting this
accumulation. Sealed.

A choice few there were who were dissenters.
After a pause; from T.N. his letter.
From G.M. too “with reasons if required.”
Simply a “simple dissent recorded”
- against M.S. (Uncle Maarten that is).
And J.C. had a relevant question
or non-relevant as you may view it.
Good representation if you ask me.
Expectation. A ripple-smile passed round
- from M.S. to me and over to G.M. -
as wee Esther took the chance to vanish.
Showing by its momentary easing
the presence of tension. Yet finally
our victory. We have conformity.