There was a certain element of surprise

when I found out you had been reading

C.S. Lewis in the time

between spare time

and after your morning walk,

no longer with lead in hand

after so many years of boundless joy.

The surprise was split both ways,

mine at you finally reading

a book I first devoured

in dark army ticking blanket

days and under the cover so the Witch

could not see me, yours,

that I knew exactly what you meant

when you said The Horse and his Boy,

the winter glass that froze over

in the dead of night

and the forever mist

seeping out of my bed clothes,

like Lion roar made corporeal,

the sense of justice as dawn

bleeds through decades haze;

in time I see you with child like glee

as you take the books I send down

to complete the teaching.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016