These years between us like a sea.
Any dignity that came with growing older
Would stop my pencil on the paper.
The player was open; you asked for the Stones;
Got that, got steaming coffee, conversation.
The heavy curtains kept a wild night out.
I keep thinking of your eyes, your hands.
There is no reason for it, none at all.
You would say I can’t be what I’m not,
Yet I can’t be not what I am.
Where does that leave us? What can we do?
The silence after Jagger was like a cloak
I’d have thrown over you – only the wind
Was left, and the clock ticked as you sipped,
Clutching the green mug in both hands.
Charles Tomlinson
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