The winter sun
does nothing to warm
the old, weary man
who sits alone
writing his memoir.

He sits at
a small French writing desk
his wife had bought for him
such a long time ago.
It’s position is by the garden window
to catch the sun.

There he wrestles with his thoughts
Should I tell of this?
Should I reveal that?
Would anyone gain from the knowing?
And what of the pain I’d be sowing?
He’d thought of this for so many months
As he laid down the story of his life
For in truth it would not be a noble account
Save the few precious years he’d had with his wife.

Secrets he’d known, yet none had he shared
Even now, so long since retired
He remembered the words his handler had used
‘In this world. silence is required.’
There were so many wrongs he couldn’t correct
So-called enemies had died by his hand
And laid out in print in his memoir
Would anyone at all understand!

Once again he closed his writing book
Not a word had he written once more
He looked through the window as the sun shone
Though in his heart it was too cold to thaw.

©Joe Wilson – The spy who was…2016