It’s been his old way of life
We have done so many lanes and by lanes together
So many impulsive pavements to parks
So much of immemorial discretions to art
He followed me to bronze coloured knobs
to the evening's promise of night
I wonder why he has to wait outside at the cathedral spires?
Why follow me to certain smells of sundown
to this frenzy of coming undone in the deepest of nights?
He faithfully watches the reflections through the stained window glass;
Couldn’t we have just said goodbye at the doorstep without his silver white shadows tangling with mine?!
Oh moon, I wish to hide
Let me hide in certain wounded nights…
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