Why do I do this, why torture myself

With these visions of summer hedgerows

Laden heavy with fragrant blossoms;

And Chichester harbour, the masts of yachts

At the bottom of opulent lawned gardens,

Roman palaces once found underneath;

Mosaics we once paid a pound to see?

 

Why do I do this, why do I even allow

You in my dreams and musings?

Even though I know you’re now

Fifty-six years old, wherever you are. 

 

Uncharitable, but true. So,

Why do I do this; why does my mind’s gunsight always zero in

On 1986? Now, in my cold monastic cell, my wizened hovel?

How did I ever once go, down those green lanes

Leading to sea; pull up outside your flat

In a spray of gravel, twenty-seven years ago?

 

And here’s this damaged Polaroid, its

emulsion gaudy and dateless as a memorial window,

Of you tending the barbie – Oh, summer days,

Down at that railway carriage in the sands

That served as changing room and chalet. Surely

 

Somewhere, it must always be that seaside summer;

Witterings Beach, with ‘Uptown Girl’ on the stereo,

While the sun was always warm and westering

And we in our brown skins were both blessed with salt.

 

Anyway, I’m sorry.

 

I seem to say that, more and more, these days,

To a range of disappointed girls, some historical,

Some even dead: the rest are photographs.  

And some days, hot remorse

Courses through my veins like mercury

I’ve not done very well; it must be said.

 

I hope you’re still OK, and doing fine;

Much as I miss your face, your hair, the candleight, the wine,

Perhaps you’re better off a haunting dream -

I wouldn’t wish you shared this shrivelled life of mine.