The silent fold of paper
that curved into shadows,
the sly light shining
from your emerald ring.
You think that I've forgotten.
Or you've forgotten
Me.
Once, we wandered
into shops,
felt the icy wonder
of jewels caught
in nets of silver.
I saw how you blossomed
away from the crowd;
warm petals of your hidden
in those worn aisles,
sweet cardamom cream.
On the street again
to grey cobbles
in darkness,
I whisper your name,
And realize
it's no longer true.
Still, I will
repeat it over and over,
trying to conjure
that plush weft
of your London suit
green like the water
melding moor to sea,
green like my heart, of course,
pulled into your kitchen
where you coyly mashed
the tight pearls of jasmine tea,
the copper patina
against the deep red
oriental patterened rugs,
and later with olives
eagerly dispensing their fleshy coats
under our teeth.
I thought you were a fierce adept
of birds and vines,
so natural in your breathless flow.
Damselflies floated
on the walls
behind the gloss
of your haloed hair.
I ranged your library,
seeking out in which volumes
you might have secreted
childhood violets.
The scent of their decay
leading me on.
I felt a glass of sherry
in my hand,
catching some last light
of Sunday,
when we'd let that Fado
recording spin and
cover our unspoken
Always.
Do the campions still bravely wave
rosy greetings
this late
in the season?
Hello, Hello
Farewell
as we trail
away,
tracing
the night
air.
