Paris

The rain thundered that Autumn day in Paris 

Beating a sodden rhythm 

On the awning the colour of moss 

For the café where we used to meet 

A small reservoir of water ready for emptying 

Before the tables below were deluged 

It needed a poke 

As I did 

For being late on such a day 

Of all days 

When you had come to say goodbye 

And to return the book you had borrowed 

Which i will never read 

And to share photos of a hot sunny swim 

Under a waterfall 

Where we will never return 

Your coffee had gone cold 

And you left the grey water half drunk 

Looking up you said you had to leave 

Sooner than was really polite 

But you just wanted to say 

“What?’” 

There was nothing to be added 

To the letter sent 

We were moving on because of this and that 

No regrets, no blame 

But i knew “Good Luck” 

Did not suffice to honour our past 

So I kissed you, held you in my arms, 

Found your scent for the last time 

And turned to make my way 

Across the flooded boulevard 

With the running streams 

Taking our story into the gutter. 

Tulips 

Tulips are important 

You said 

Standing by the car 

With the engine running against the cold 

And your bags piled high 

Your gloved hands ready for the road 

Think of tulips in the Spring 

The colour of heat and fresh hope 

With their fragile translucent green for stems 

We will visit our favourite coves to bathe 

And eat lobster on the quayside as before 

You promised so much with that final wave 

Your scarf billowing in the wind 

You, brushing your hair from your face 

A sure sign that your journey had begun 

That your thoughts now lay elsewhere 

And that my Winter held its grip once again 

It took only a minute for silence to return 

For the air to be sucked dry 

And for your scent to disappear 

I knew then for sure that I loved you 

That if the seasons kept changing 

And the road brought you back 

There would be tulips, tulips everywhere, 

More red tulips than we had ever seen. 

Window For The World

When the day is sunk 

My spirits low 

The rain forever dripping cracks 

Of sodden glee to underscore 

The wild wind’s rise and fall 

I take the quiet solitude of a day alone 

Better to contemplate the scudding clouds 

Such ill remembered marks 

Of a drumbeat world 

All labour lost 

Though reluctant guilt remains 

To justify a small lived life 

Where thoughts may have their liberty and range 

Memory, regret, judgment, sorrow 

Collect their dues on time 

Until, too soon or perhaps a later time 

The storm moves on 

And I am released once more 

The Dog is dead a while 

But will rise again for sure. 

Friendship

Sunk in the vaults of the great cathedral 

Where the echoes of ancient rites 

Fade to the clatter of tea trays 

And the low toned conversations 

Of city workers seeking respite and salvation 

Become the prayers 

Of the modern confessional 

Here two men sit 

Contemporaries, old young friends 

Trying to reconcile the past 

Across the years of separation and silence 

Skirting forgotten hurts 

Breathing fresh life again 

Into bonds that had perished 

Curiosity, loyalty, sentiment, all play their part 

In this risky, revivalist reunion 

Less certain now of purpose 

Less nimble 

Less callow and assumptive 

Less ambitious 

Less careless of the passing time 

But richer for experience and delight 

That a judgement made so long ago 

To make a friend and mean it 

Has survived the effort spent 

Pursuing dreams and the unravelling of plans 

Loss, disappointment and the paying of bills, Kith and kin departed 

Choices that turned into blind alleys 

All trumped by what luck has thrown their way 

Love, trust, family, practised talent 

The gifts of discovery and progress 

From these they have learned 

How it needs to be 

How fate can be kind 

How they can live at last 

Content, more truly free 

Friendship has made it through the years 

To smile again amidst their peers. 

On Turning 64

The cherry tree in the garden 

Of the house where i once lived 

Has died, for reasons mysterious or not, 

Simple old age, drought, expediency 

It depends upon your point of view 

But not the magnolia of my memory 

The bursting sentinel below the terrace 

Shading and colouring the view beyond 

Cream edged in pink 

A reminder of so many years of happiness 

Where my children climbed and hid 

Where the branches sagged and groaned 

Flowers too numerous to count 

Gnarled, drooped, flourishing 

There’s hope then that despite the years 

Beauty shall yet prevail and Nature too 

When all the evenings of this life 

Shall bring about their longed for Spring 

Deep pleasure felt by every generation new 

The lost, the living and the future few. 

The Oyster Eater

The famous boulevard was at its best 

That Sunday morning before Noon 

The heat held back 

The plane trees shadow shade 

Against the glare and sweat 

Inside or out? 

Out, out, out I say 

For to eat alone one might as well 

Show the world you do not care 

The unfurled bleached linen square 

A flag to parley solitude into sensual sense 

Of oysters by the deck, why not? 

Fresh, translucent in their shell 

Quivering, fleshy, recessed unto the talon 

Explored by tongue and nose and hidden eye 

Flicked, lipped, the salty brine 

To gorge the appetites of mind and lust 

Rare moments too soon forgot 

The room that looked upon the sea below 

The attic where alumni first made love 

The studio floor that held the vast expanse 

Of sprawling sheets 

Where passion came and went 

Love where have you gone? 

Forever lost? 

Or do you bide your time 

Sunk in mignonette 

Faint traced in the hard carcass heap 

Smeared, spent, shucked 

An oyster man beached in history 

And an empty plate to go.