Twenty-Two

East Kent, 13 December 2016

Hard to think it now I know

but you were only twenty-two

when we first met and wooed

and surprised ourselves to see

that we would soon be wed.

From the unique vantage point

of our little, one-bedroom flat

in stucco-fronted NW5 when

letting fall your velvet dress

under waist-encircling arm
I studied your round back

its hourglass shape, milky skin

and pretty, burnt-toffee moles

like constellation spread

on mattress without bed

(I counted five and told you so).

You sunk your all in all for me

who might have been a ratbag

and tosser. Who’s to know?

Now our kids are twenty-two

and hooking up like we did.

Hadn’t we better warn them?

Surely there are things

that they should know?

No. Just let it go.

The Hare

SW France, 30 November 2016

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

I heard the poet cry

I stopped the breath of one who moves

In heaven’s all-seeing eye.

The morning bright, the meadow clear

Our mingled joy in life set fair

Some higher power placed us here

We breathed the same sweet air.

But guns in crooks of arms were cocked

Your heart near burst with fear

You bolted, tacked, I braked, I rocked

God help you, mad March hare.

Now our fates are interlocked
I tracked you at my shoulder
You turned away, for joy I leapt
But flicking back, I shudder.

I feel your weight, I know your beauty

You rode my dented car

I cannot think you less than me

Each knows the morning star.

Thus each man kills the thing he loves

I heard the poet cry

I stopped the breath of one who moves
In heaven's all-seeing eye.