Some time ago I wrote:
I seem to be finding my way around that health bump in the road. That journey isn’t over yet but I think that the worst if it is behind me, and that I can find my way back to a level path.
I am still here.
You may be wondering why I have been very quiet since then.
It is because I have seen a little more of the road ahead now, and it is very different from the road I was travelling on before I hit that bump.
It is very treacherous, it slopes downwards, and the end of the road is not as far off as I had thought and hoped it would be.
That is why we have to part company, because I am not as strong as I was, and I have to simplify my life to be able to more forward.
It is a terrible wrench, I will miss all of this and all of you more than I can say, but it has to be done.
I wanted to close the door on this place properly, and let nobody think that it was thoughtlessly abandoned. It will still be here, in case anyone wants to visit and look around.
You may see me in other places from time to time, but not here.
I can’t see the end of the road, because it is shrouded in mist. I hope that is still quite far ahead, and I am hoping that when I get there events might play out a little like this:
They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:
My father, twenty-five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Still two years old and trembling at his feet.
My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress
Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat,
Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.
Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw
Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out
The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My mother shades her eyes and looks my way
Over the drifted stream. My father spins
A stone along the water. Leisurely,
They beckon to me from the other bank.
I hear them call, ‘See where the stream-path is!
Crossing is not as hard as you might think.’
I had not thought that it would be like this.
Eden Rock, by Charles Causely (1917 to 2003)