FULL CIRCLE

With open arms, unripened June

reaches skyward where criss-cross runes,

like cloudy kisses, vaporise.

Approaching our meridian

on wheels, I duck its overhang,

gaze through windows and hurry past;

untaken timelines, glimpsed and gone

in the passage between stations.

Deep sat, my crows feet eyes backtrack,

echo distant, tunnel vision.

In its shoebox a photo fades -

lover's keepsake of gilded years -

and there before you first fetched breath,

all mock demure, your mother smiles.

Youth supposes endless encores.

But leant on wall, hands tucked behind,

the image speaks of no return:

leaves me to plumb that pool of genes

for common features, weaving stitches

out of scars. The hidden birthmark

ageing, losing definition.

Decades later, from time to time,

the disjoined stories rendezvous,

make cameo appearances

along the riverbank. I'm perched

in blustery spitter spatter

on a barstool with espresso:

scanning the walkways' lit parade

to fit, in teatime’s suck tide, each

quick step in its place. Yet skirting

sentiment until - as five chimes -

out of the grey you stride, across

the bridge between us into view,

all heels and legs and brimful

of confidence. Neck like a pillar;

bold as once I was, decades since.

Then marching off to the nearest,

noisiest pub, we talk full tilt

and reason you've reached half my span.

So from here on our ratio narrows:

as day dims slowly might-have-beens

get overthrown, while shared things grow.

v.2011 / ii.2012 / viii.2012