After loving

the sound of the sea

came in at the window.

A mile away

beyond the reach of our feeble light

just reflected on the deserted promenade

quiet waves broke at midnight:

the slow rhythm of renewed talk

travelled in long lines across our minds.


Remembering those quiet moments

after drums

I think of spring flowers opening to the sun

or winter frost feeding the roots

of young vines.


Footsteps in soft rain

cold leaves blown in the London wind

rumbling traffic trembles the trees

of the park and lamplight fills golden pools’

reflections of city sky.


Do you remember the warm words

carried away like leaves by time-

the touch of an arm on your shoulder?

Do you recall the footfall

we left behind us on the dark path?

We went on, you remember,

around us the lights of distant cars,

below us in the deep earth

there were trains running and

in some tunnel a young busker

playing a guitar.

Still that music churns my heart.