Return to Waterloo

These once children chiselled on a bench – 
holding hands. A July southern seafront.
They are amongst screeching pushchairs,
feral dogs, old fish and fresh doughnuts.

Aged and rugged up against theremin winds  
they are a poet’s monument to displacement. 
Lost within the century of being misunderstood
with its unreliable narrations of self-assessments.

An ancient seagull swoops falsetto.
Not searching for chips or prophylactics,
but filming the soft end of existence.

All eyes beaded on promises.

A return to Waterloo.

“I’m sorry, Terry. 
It was the mistake of my life!”

“Did you need him, Julie?”

"No, just his money 
and his silly dreams. 
I was a fool. 
Do your coat up,
it’s getting chilly. 
Here, I’ll help you.”

“Thank you, Puffin.”

“God. You remember that! 
What a silly thing.”

“You used to call me pudding."

“Such childish names for each other.”

“We were inseparable.”

“It was sixty years ago.”

“Yes.”

They shuffle to the bus stop.
Orphans to the storm of tomorrow,
the day after, and the day after that.
The rain comes, they clinch each other.
The pitter patter of a five o’clock dénouement.

“This is my bus, Terry.”

“Oh.”

“It’s been super seeing you, 
after all this time.
Thank heavens for Facebook.”

“I miss you, puffin.”

“Don’t cry, Terry please.
We shouldn’t behave like this.
We are old!

“Please let me come with you.
I only have this heart.”

“Just memories, Terry. 
That’s all.”

“Please!”

Julie gives a sigh that could only mean love.
She takes off her glasses, wipes the years.

“Ohh. Come on then. 
You big, delicious pudding.”

The exhausted seagull takes flight with faith
and the bus tyres spray the kerb with possibilities.

A fleshed sun breaks open the streets. 
The tenderness of the season
rising in heat to a new sunset.

Is this their unfinished sonnet?

Perhaps.