A life of deposed disposition
An end to the Spanish
Or any other, inquisition
You had been the pretty girl
But, at least for now
It seems you have gone walkabout
I had been the dashing young man
But, at least for now
It seems other matters occupy me
Wherever tenderness was
There is tenderness no more
Such apparitions from a distant shore
We do not let it go
Though neither
Do we hang on
Our dear life
Is for that other life
Which rather speedily approaches
Some words cannot be found
Without first being
Or becoming lost
The ground is dry, hard
Parched, thin grass
There are memories here
Yet the barren earth
Does not know how to call for them
There are couples, walking arm in arm
Matching jumpers, matching rucksacks
There are families
Of all ethnicities, of none
Who seem to share high levels of boredom
This is not my place anymore
I have lost my feeling of belonging
On the balcony of the cafe I drink a glass
Of Fontimans, Botanically Brewed
Mandarin and Seville Orange Jigger
I am there among young Japanese folk
And a woman, in a Sgt Peppers velvet jacket
The family of four, at the next table
Talk in pronounced English of last seasons Italian trip
I see today’s lost soul
Just as I was that lost soul
Some time before them
I see the scattered feathers
Just as the fox attack
Has left them
I see the water of the lake
Just as that other water
Which my sorrowful soul gazed into
I see grandparents, parents, children
Just as we might have been
But not as we are
I see the light in the deer shelter roof
Just as it was
The last time, and the times previous
I see (feel) that the silence is not here today
Just as I didn’t actually know it was
All of those times in the past
The ice-cream cabin as was
Is now a car park pay-station
Yet, at just on eleven
The cafe is crowded
The terrace is full
So someone, somewhere
Knows something about business
Though the wet chairs
From overnight rain
Catch a few punters out
Did we spend long here
Did we go to the water
I remember a photoshop picture I made
Of your face
Among a tree with a Gormley statue
The sort of thing
Which a child might have been taught
Although for me
The motivation was somewhat different
It was about hanging on
It was about not letting go
It is about hanging on
It is about not letting go
I sit on Alfred’s, the old head gardener’s seat
I wonder what he might have made
Of the mock tree
With the mock apple baubles
I think of your boots
With silver on the heels
I think that even if all that glitters
Is not gold, it is still evocative
One couldn’t quite call it the start of the day
Yet the artificial tree
Between the beech and the horse chestnut
Is what the children shout about
What did you make of the sculpture park
I’m sure I told you about my coming here
After my mother had died
After bombs were dropped on Yugoslavia
I hear the distant aeroplane
I am taken back, to you collecting me
From your airport; you wanting to show off
Your island, just as I wanted to show you mine
