Poetry of place

The last pages I want to read in a stillness

The stillness of a silence that has no interruption

Unlike the lines on your face that greet my hand in a serenade

Trace the life that brings you

Forward through a greyness this evening wears

Like something trying to discount or deflect

Where we could be

In that very promise

When our mouths touch

And the moisture erupts inside

Warms our bellies

And keeps us from cold nights

And vague whispers of ageing loneliness

To be us only

Yes that promise

That life will be always like this

But it is not so, not always, is it

Then the inheritance of what was so beautiful

Becomes loss, what we carry in our cells, in our blood

Our memories, our love, our today

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