even cold

twilight
and even the silence seems frozen

forty years ago
under a sky like this
we lay together in your flea-market fur
dreaming wild dreams out loud

I never knew anything could be so soft
nor meaningless things ever mean
so much

we were coming apart at the seams
back when friendship meant more than anything

even cold

forty years on

windy day on the ridge
imagining myself on Hampstead Heath
forty years ago
when friendship meant more
than the contact list I have now

winter sits thinly on the bough
some deer bolt the clearing at the sight of me
I turn for home
and a solitary tea
thankful for friends I never see