Wednesday 17 November 2000

It is raining, 4am and I cannot
Think of a thing to say.
Bereft, perhaps, which best pleases
The moon in her naked
Sky, the stars, like you,
Haven gone somewhere else
Leaving the heavens unopened,
Unasked of anything.

I expect too much I suppose:
The face of honesty shown
In a glimpse that would
Otherwise terrify, an energy
Perturbed but detailing nothing.
And there are games to play
Before we can move on,
Sounding names, altering chronicles,
Shadowing smiles with the devil,
Now, forever, always.

And this might come at anytime,
Maybe when the peonies
Dip their great heads in wind,
The expression on your face
That has something to say,
My mind spare,
My heart beating because of itself

I have seen this before, the whole
World blackened, taken away
As I watch you trailing
Through streets
That have no meaning
But their own oblivions
Catching each the sea-surf
Of misery that detects
Nothing but monotone.

And so we walk together, alongside
One another, nothing more,
Having to determine
When the moment strikes
To settled into shared words
Then rest, the future born,
The last breath stopped
Before there could ever be
An expression of an aftermath
Or of a soul turned inwards
As I watch the mirror dim,
4am, the rain bent on glass
Not ending as I reach for the bottle,
Your photograph fast in my eye, then silence,
An emptiness until the sun comes velveting the sky.

John Cornwall