I thought I was carefree’s best man;
the far horizon my close neighbour, so I thought
till depression whispered:
Your invisible friend for two years and more that’s me.
Your secret since on sands threatened by waves
you wrote the J of JOY
while its O waiting for you
gave a shudder.
Perhaps you, like it, know that life
draws one line after another on your brow,
that you are a prophet of illusion, a calligrapher
on sea-foam.

Because you pant after the lead
I had to show you now
what’s not yours
and hurt you, till you know that confidence
is the daughter of conviction and joy,
the sister of the moment not
what follows.

What use the truth as long as I’m ignorant? I said.
Let me live the lie, as long as I’m happier and more fluent than you.

He said:
It’s crueller than explanation
and slier, when the dream baulks at your snoring;
you wake to a morning that does not promise day.
Have you wondered why when through the window
loneliness peered in, you drew the curtains?
Perhaps it’s an embarrassing question
and you of all people know it needs reflection
and that reflection uncovers the truth and your relapse.

I said perhaps,
no maybe, it said,
and the honeymoon ended.