i.m. Ian Jack (1945-2022)
I feel awkward owning up to it, Ian,
but I find I’m skimming the news pages.
To bask in the light, listen to music,
watch geese fly over and tulips glow
doesn’t feel as if I’m selling my soul.
Not that I skip the bullet points –
bombs falling, democracies failing,
the forests going up in smoke –
but now the sun comes up at six,
with a blackbird calling and the koi luminescent,
will you forgive me for sitting outside,
on the flagstones, a coffee in hand,
my eyes on the plum tree next door
with its cumulus of white blossom,
or if not forgive – newsman as you are –
at least come through the gate to dispute it.
