Afterward

When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
'He was a man who used to notice such things'?

Remembering Thomas Hardy.

Others start by writing verses and mature into prose. Poetry is for the young.

Not so, Hardy. After writing ten major novels and some short stories, he stopped writing prose and completed his work with vibrant poetry.

Yes, he was a man who "used to notice such things".

When I am thinking of my "afterwards", my main concern are the lost lonely moments. Of the shared experiences, some may survive in the memory of those who shared them. Others - the ones I have written down - could prolong their existence in the minds of my readers. (Should there be any...).

But my very own secret thoughts, never told, never written, never shared, will die with me.

Excepting the ones in this blog. But again, this is anonymous. Whose thoughts?