Morning sadness by the kitchen table
remembering a woman I once loved!
Do I still?
Or is it the memory of my infatuation that I love?
Can’t see her face clearly anymore,
but sense her embraces,
sweet breath and soft voice, after love,
something about: ’Forever.’

On returning from the sea
she had married and moved away.
Spring darkened, a chilly wind blew my youth
into cynical middle age.
I should have called on her
if only to finalise the ending,
as it is the unspoken
is a barrier to what could have been
a sweet memory.

Now that I shall not see her again,
too many years have dripped
and made tiny holes on the sandstone of time,
only the faint echo of her whispering voice remains:
‘Forever, forever my love.’;