We walk in familiar places
Our conversation races and chases
Then fades into our undiscovered dreams
My shoe laces, faced on the strike of the
Faraway clock are undone; the shine
Of flameless traces in the half light
Of midnight are over the cross unsung
We talk in particular cases of the real and
The imaginary, dazed by the liquor of love
My news of a Windrush calling, falling in line
The shadows steps, still and moving are abroad
In my country, here upon my Lincolnshire Wolds
The few truths that only they are able
To carry are held together; string on paper
Hope in the music of Liszt or Offenbach
We turn the last corner, under the
Soft sway of the evergreen willow
We walk along the unlit shingle path
Through the hinged wooden gate
And together we turn the cast metal
Key around, in our mortice security lock
