What a surprise, cousin
To open that thick envelope
And find inside, a book
Of your poems.
And find enclosed a card,
Wherein you recalled
That I had once read to you a poem of mine
Written when I was less than 10 years old.
And here we are, half a century on,
Still trying to capture the illusive form
Of fleeting thoughts
And fading memories.
It’s in the blood, dear cousin
It was always in the blood
Both yours and mine
Etched in our respective destinies
To write, and write on endlessly.