Could it be any sweeter 
in the end, 
if I was sitting on that green boat 
with the white sail 
gliding gently onwards 
on the surface of the sea?

Or if that man 
with the sweet voice and gentle manner 
speaking on the phone 
by the fence up the hill above me 
held my hand and said, 
there was nothing more beautiful to him, than me?

Could it be any sweeter, 
if I missed hearing those mute swans –
the humming and whistling of their wings
as they pass behind the building with the arching windows? 

The days are mine,
I feel free, 
and I am as I feel: 
walking slowly,
aimlessly,
lingering 
by the railing on the pier,
sitting down on this bench, 
taking out my pencil, 
my notebook, 
and telling you this:

I am happy with the choices I have made.
I wished for this.

Yet I wonder,
if it would be any sweeter 
to watch the boats 
through those arching windows? 
To have a key
to warmth at the water’s edge.

Or would it be any sweeter 
to be over there, 
in my view? 

Over there, in Flushing,
where I see 
the green hills rolling,
descending into the water 
where the sea meets the river.
Where the fairytale castles 
skirt the edge of the mouth.

From there, 
from the peace I know rests upon that shore, 
where my view is, 
I could look onto here. 
I could look at this big small town 
with a hill of colourful houses framing each other, 
with the pastels and the shapes of the roofs, 
and the painters and the poets on the streets,
and the port with the cruisers all year round.
I could look from my castle, 
	and smile a pleased smile.

But do you know,
all I can smell, 
sitting here on this hill by the water, 
	at the brink of winter, 
is freshly cut grass. 
And just to the right, 
behind the trees
I can hear 
the gardener working away, 
in his freedom,
producing more of the crisp green scent. 

And the robin, 
who sat on the stone wall by the bench, 
is now calling its mate 
	with a sweet voice and gentle manner,
up in the tree with the small honey coloured flowers 
and the sweetest, homeliest scent,
	in the best of the summer months. 

Tell me,
would it be any sweeter,
if I had it all but
missed all this? 

I have everything I need 
in my little pocket 
past the small wooden gate.

I have time, 
	pen and paper,
I have the water’s soothing glimmer, and
I have its freedom,
its ripple and flow.
and I will make waves, just like water,
and appear to be so very still like a mirror, 
if you look upon it on a windless day. 

And as the winter comes
I will not be walking 
across a frozen river to Flushing, 
or go out to sea on foot, 
like on the shores I grew up in,
	farther north than you’d believe.

But, I will carry on dreaming
and watching longingly, 
as the others glide
and stream through the water, 
and still wonder,
if it would be any sweeter than this.