Do you ever get those days where you can’t quite make up your mind what to do? Paralysed by choice I finally settle on walking into my local town centre, hoping that the walk will give me some clarity. It’s a bright, cold January day.

As I walk down the street I replay the weekend in my head. I had been invited to dinner by A, who I’ve known vaguely for a few years. I feel just a little bit anxious as I don’t know this guy well, so what will we talk about I wonder? I reassure myself that it will be fine. I have a bag full of ingredients because I’m cooking sticky toffee pudding and A is doing the main course, though claims to be no cook. (A claim that later proves to be not entirely true).

When I arrive at his flat I take a lift to the top floor. I love the view. The city lights sprawl before us and we can see for miles. I point out illuminated landmarks lit up like jewels in the charcoal night. Before I begin to cook (the main course is almost done), I show A my new tattoo. Without any hesitation he whips off his t-shirt and shows me his.

I cook and stir and A smokes a cigarette. As the pudding bakes in the oven, we sit in the lounge and talk about poetry. A writes and he goes and gets me an aged note book full of poems he wrote years ago in Greek, his native tongue. I look through this beautiful, delicate object decorated with pictures and full of cyphers I can’t understand. I ask him if he will read one of the poems to me, in English, knowing that I’m asking a lot. Showing your own work to someone for the first time is, as Simon Armitage says, a lot like taking your clothes off in front of a new lover, fraught with vulnerabilities and exposing.

A reads. I listen. I’m transfixed. It’s a deeply personal poem and although he says that in Greek these words play with language, it’s difficult to translate that into English, even though A’s English is perfect. I suppose the nuances of my language are the things that get lost in translation. He says that he would like his work translated properly so I suggest that he emails one of his poems to me and I’ll give it a go, but I quickly add that I might not be able to do it because already the complexity of his work is very apparent.

Yesterday he emailed a poem over to me, even in imperfect English, the sentiment of it is so beautiful it makes me feel moved.

When I finish reading A’s poem, I realise that I’m feeling so honoured that he would share this with me. I don’t know if I can play with it and do it any sort of lexical justice but I will give it a go over the next couple of days. It’s the least I can do to return the favour. I cannot share my poems with A (though I might at some point), because I feel that mine are crude and immature compared to his.

I cross the street, wondering why the traffic is quiet, usually this is a really busy junction. I realise that I can hear horses hooves and as I look up the hill I see a funeral cortege complete with Victorian horse-drawn carriage. Suddenly, being alive is a beautiful prospect, off-set by the tragedy that death brings. A’s poem highlights the very slight dividing line between the two conditions, they are so close yet mercifully so very far away from each other.

Right before I log off, I need to congratulate myself. I have just bought the nicest saucony running shoes that I have ever owned. Parks Marathon, here I come!