“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.” Pablo Neruda.

Photo by Léonard Cotte on Unsplash

One fine evening when I was sixteen
stuck in some rowdy pub with dazzling chandeliers,
we walked out, carelessly, promenaded by the river.
we move  under beech trees, a passing shower,
everything smells so good, so fragrant,
when you are young, the air is so sweet.
you close your eyelids and we kiss;
the wind is laden with odd noises: mooing cows, driven cars
our city is not far away, only as far as Andromeda...
Scents of wine and scents of beer on our breaths
The sky is azure and you smell so good, the perfume of girl

Maybe, I was stung by a bad star,
fading like sweet shivers, small and all white, you start to go away from me
even on this early November night, never to return, even in light years of time.

We were intoxicated, wandering freely in the fields of desire
throbbing our mad hearts were, deceiving ourselves, blissfully.
under the spell of a yellow lamppost, we kissed goodnight.

Walking home, I passed traffic lights, drunks, my future self,
first love ended when August was out
university and work and London dragged us apart
my quick wit made you laugh, one last time, you made me swoon..
The adored became one figure on one evening long ago.
and now, disgracefully,  you are the subject of this old man’s verse.

I have deigned to write you, at last, as we were, young
and not so foolish, we knew things must pass
but not so soon, not for ever
we can no longer say: I love you I love you I love you,
I’ve searched and searched  for these few measly words
to honour us as we were
I look for you still. I know, your girlish body is now matronly
and you may well be dead. As may I. Still,, love is in my heart and head.
your memory does not depend on lips or fingers or even eyes
looking at you now, from this chasm of years, your fragile beauty remains no disguise. 

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