Cold afternoon, quiet on the fields,
melatonin slumber of the countryside,
the steady hum of the waiting earth.
Your own static vibrations,
needling out over the grass,
the kerosene fire of your skin
and the place where we begin
to see the approaching end
of everything.

Chilly September, always remember
the way we missed the bus back
and had to wait for a train to Waterloo –
so drank in the pub until two.
Your empty glass, my hollow chest
holding like orchids better things said.
Shaking head of the pale bartender
as I settled the tab and left,
glad to have had at least one afternoon,
although one afternoon not enough.
Perhaps I should have done more,
instead of closing our own tab after one.

Early October,
we could have started over.

Chichester, March 2o17


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