Clair Chilvers was a cancer scientist, and latterly worked for the UK National Health Service. She now divides her time between writing and running a mental health research charity that she co-founded 10 years ago. She lives in Gloucestershire, UK and has had poems published in on-line and print journals including Ink Sweat and Tears, Amaryllis, Atrium, Artemis and Sarasvati. www.clairchilverspoetry.co.uk
In the still darkness when the church clock strikes three when all the world sleeps I dwell on the past, on sins of omission or worse, before I understand what the world thinks does not matter; what I think is the divide between remorse and repose. Today I read the Letter of John, words well known from the liturgy, a way at last to face the past, acknowledge wrongs done, hurt caused, leave them like mists wrapping round the autumn trees
I drive along the lane, not far from town, to my house, where my lover will come, one day, when he is ready. The lane, unfamiliar, I struggle a little to find the way then come to houses dark shadows set back. In the middle of the road a badger unmistakable in his grey striped coat unhurried, crosses the lane, pulls me up short from my reverie of a future that hasn’t quite yet come.
On growing old
The years stretched before me opportunities time-unbounded hounded only by ambition. Those first years watching children grow from babies to young adults, now middle-aged themselves. Years experienced mindlessly, recalled as fragments. The years close in now what once seemed infinite now has a finite, yet unknown end impenetrable to the naked soul; still the impetus to finish what I start, to see my grandsons grow, maybe to adulthood.