Edwin Morgan

I keep thinking of you – which is ridiculous.
These years between us like a sea.
And dignity that came with growing older
would stop my pencil on the paper.
The player was open; you asked for the Stones;
got that, got steaming coffee, conversation.
The heavy curtains kept a wild night out.
I keep thinking of your eyes, your hands.
There is no reason for it, none at all.
You would say that I can’t be what I’m not,
yet I can’t not be where I am.
Where does that leave us? What can we do?
The silence after Jagger was like a cloak
I’d have thrown over you – only the wind
was left, and the clock ticked as you sipped,
clutching the green mug in both hands.
Don’t look up suddenly like that!
How hard is not to watch you.
We had got to that stage of not talking
and not worrying, and that
was almost happy. Then, late,
when you lay on one elbow on the carpet
I could feel nothing but that hot knife
of pain telling me what it was,
and I can’t tell you about it, not one word.

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