A bell is striking in the tower outside. Whose chair this was I have quite forgotten. Before my slow feet the glowing carpet spreads out the garden and the peacock.
Someone a long time back wove in four paths to meet at the fountain in the centre and there the radiant bird struts forward to bow and drink.
This cold, unsteady heart lifts with the bell strokes. Yes, the pathway worn across the carpet can be stepped, foot after foot and onwards to the door and who comes now or, maybe, went before like me is quite forgotten.