Unconvicted youth
Look again into your eyes
Counter revolution
The poet seldom pries
Tears for all lost ledgers
But you know; every day
How easily, outwardly
You gave your world away
Warning words
Echoed fine conversations
All too good
Even to be untrue
Younger older man
Bent double
You struggle
Down and through the tram
Wires splash
The flash
Of disconnection
Reconnects, but do not let them
Lara
To my thoughts of Zima Junction
Beauty of steam trains
Across your snow covered country
Here
A thousand miles
And umpteen revolutions
Passed by in the broadsheet papers
Our beauty rolls more gentle
Up and down the Wolds
Could you come over on Sunday
For a cake and tea
Lara, this is not your name now
No more than this is Sudbrooke Crossing
Yet love it is still she who reigns
Across your smile covered eyes
One frosted window
One breath of fresh blown air
Care there within you
A most
Neo-non-revolutionary stare
Love
Given and never forbidden within you
Unfair
The prayer to bring you
For soldiers and sly ones to care
Gentle gentleness
Tender in your every touch
You dare
To be your own one person
Stand tall, always, everywhere
Time changes
And you easily explain
Without attack, forgiveness even
That the most wilful act
Taken so that we cannot, can not, go back
You knew
It was there within you
Cross transference
Of the frosted window view
Blown across a country
Caught up in a revolutionary tale
Young poet, young doctor
Life set out to sail
Now, in a later year
We would
If we could
Slow you down
Take our time, take your time
To join you more completely
Share all then and more
Of all of that majesty which you owned
I could step over this precipice
But is it that, the exclusion, the non involvement
This and that which has kept me sane
With tears in my eyes
I watch your final speech, your detachment
It seems you reach for my release
You use the word progressive
Who could argue with that
And for today at least, no one does
But this is not about you
Or your just and worthy cause
It is about me; should I, could I, take up the gauntlet
What about the idea that the student
Works harder than the master
Without the equality of pay
Or on the day that nothing happens
Either for that son of mine or so so many others
Of his generation, not tomorrow nor thereafter
Or of my own time ahead, without security
Of tenure or pension and anyway
What would that offer
Except the chance to rant and rave
I could step over the precipice
Or, after any and many a second thought
I could stay in the calm of this my lost and forgotten land