Awake after a dream

All that is me

Are words on bits of paper

All that I have

Is love to hold you tight

All was undone

And then you held my hand

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Songs; sat and sitting

Here I am

I listen to your northern songs

Your melancholic, mellow middle-age

I remember your catchy tunes

Your good year

For the roses

I send her picture postcards

Of past times from a while ago

When I bounced around

In brothel creepers

And skin tight, drainpipe

Sky blue jeans

Seems like only yesterday

How to have found

So so many memories

So so many places to linger

While you stroke

My hair, faced back

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Photographs and voices

Rounded off post tops, twisted and twirled

Balustrades, fair places for the children

With fair hair

Sat with a smile

Beside your granddad, in a straw hat

A string vest

You remember the testament

A personal recollection of the ending

Of the war

Indescribable, words fail

Instead; tales of evacuation

Sisters

Children; from all over

In ones and twos and threes

With your long past adolescent

Smile

Behind the broad rimmed glasses

Back into happiness

Way away from sadness

Toss another pebble

Into the flow and ebb of sea

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Fresh daisies

I begin by remembering something always different

From the poem by Yevtushenko, just called Waking

Think on that

Just, for the moment, think on

Some things, same things

Yet always different

Without then their past connections or disconnects

Afloat in space, without landing, without mooring

Awash with the newness of it all together

The marvel, the meander, the wondering why

And how in the shower the radio plays

Back there, in your en-suite bedroom

There are echoes, sing-alongs

Songs of love, with differences no longer intended

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Just me and you

We talk of past and present

In the future tense

Oh heaven sent we have the sense

To look ahead

Not to tear open

For some other scavengers

Not to bear any more their load

More so than their witness

We walk in steps

On quiet pavements

Under stars and sodium lights gathered

We skip across the gaps

To find a flat stone surface

Or a park bench

Or a stream

Just to sit, no more than that, for the moment

To listen to the night time

The silence of the hours

The spoken woken tokens

Of this rounded, founded, rarest love

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