I suppose that image will always bring a tear to my eye.
Sat halfway up that windy hill with golden brown hair shrouding a hidden smile.
My reflection isn’t how I remembered it.
Something else.
Something’s different.
I watched you smile though a greying window, and you brought me flowers in bed.
From distant shores I picked up the scent of love on the Pacific winds.
I kicked crumbling dust to the sea below, knowing it could all end then and I’d stroke out with the whales chasing their dumb smiles with one of my own.
I came home to the woods and pints of gin.
It was perfect.
I told a girl in Washington Square, all beauty must die.
She laughed and doubted the lot and the saxophone wailed from the bench.
Then the clouds came and covered everything over.
The rain falls now as it did then.
And the clouds’ll linger for a while.
And the rain’ll never let that bridge burn.
But The Smoke will never rise and drift away.
And it will always thieve from me.
22/04/12
Rosebery Road.
