At the riverside inn she solemnly sips at cider;

auburn draped over the face bent to a book.

A welcome wave, he's slow to recognise her,

as if he cannot quite believe his luck.

"You one or two?" the waitress speaks pidgin English.

"We one or two?" he repeats with a quizzical air.

The waitress sighs and silently curses the British -

"We one!" she giggles and pulls him on to her chair.

 

Darkness descends on the jive and the jazz,

squeezing the space stretched before them.

There's a rustle of wings and a jingle of brass

and he leans to the face shaped by autumn.

 

A moonlighted singer rasps out a weatherbeat warning;

she moans there's no emptiness equal to that of the blues.

The forlorn heads flag, the dolorous drums are calling

the current that pulls along when you've nothing to lose.

She points at the swans bobbing and gliding in tune;

the riverboats cruise and overhung branches break,

or quiver and shake their fist at reflections of moon.

She giggles and ripples of happiness emanate.