The red telephone box is gone
Only a small square
Of flattened tar-macadam remains
Of those cross-channel love conversations
Someone once told me
Of those cross-channel love conversations
Where the calf acts as a second heart
Pumping blood around the body
Should either of these stories be true
Only a small square
Of remains would be a fine thing
Someone once told me
A place for a fountain
Of remains would be a fine thing
A place for a patch of freesias
Where the calf acts as a second heart
A scent, a memory of skin on skin
Of flattened tar-macadam remains
A place for a patch of freesias
Pumping blood around the body
Should either of these stories be true
The red telephone box is gone
A place for a fountain
A scent, a memory of skin on skin
