parting images

 

 

over a (not steaming) mug of coffee in the Buffet at Euston Station

longing for English summers

 

and when one came

meeting your ghosts at busstops and on pavements

 

so the clouds came

 

where are the printed cotton frocks

and chasing butterflies

 

only queues at Cashpoint tills on Saturdays

and crowded buses

 

and again, splashes of sun, and again, the clouds

 

hangovers

from nights that lonely hearts convene

 

festivities

like yesterday's quite gone

 

and afternoons like having been there before

 

children haunt the open lawns

under tower blocks of Ponders End, and perhaps the Docklands

 

almost forgotten them. But

they're there, growing up with time

 

and wishing and wishing

 

and the days are muddled into one another

not knowing what it is, what it's supposed to be

 

trying to sleeep over it, but the

dreams keep getting confused with reality

 

and still you do not rest buried

 

 

 

                                     London

                                     Sept 1985