25 APRIL 1987, Page 52

Her illness

For this once I manage, I force myself to write down the word light.

So many times in the last cloudy months I've tried to and my pen spelt it dark.

For the waters of Babylon sound in my friendly river, my harp hangs in a familiar tree.

I used not to care that there never were unicorns and that a phoenix was only a metaphor on fire.

I knew that, but I loved them.

But truth has been stripped of its flesh, its eyes, its gentle hands.

It reaches out an arm and lays five cold bones on my knee.

It never stops smiling with a changed smile.

Norman MacCaig