As we grow older, so too the long days
grow, the shadows thin and, at night,
the moon can only glimmer.
I must have loved you once. You
were at the tail end of happiness
when I came along, my eyes
widening at the sight of you.
And all the cold and loneliness left
as if by something marvellous
that called our names especially.
I remember Wales and the small
place near the water's edge
where we walked each day,
hand in hand, mind in mind,
the whole world flown away
to somewhere different.
And the train we rode
for hours, not noticing our destinations.
That was summer, or so it seemed,
thirty years ago today, thirty years
of space shared between us
that has brought us here
into this present we inhabit.
Now as we grow older so the memory fades
and with it habit comes, the monster
of ingratitude that has nothing
left to say for itself.
And in the morning at breakfast
between the toast and jam,
we look at one another vaguely,
mumbling thank yous and delicate
words, all hope
of anything gone,
each one wishing the other
a thousand miles away.
If you've any comments on his poem, John Cornwall will be glad
to hear from you.