"Lie with me on the cold wet grass
and speak with me in rhyme
as the evening pirouettes away.
Confuse me and seduce me
with strange untrue stories of your lives.
Tell me riddles about opposites, of conjurers and peacocks
You will know when to pause
and let stillness be moving.
And when I ask how you knew when to do it
you’ll talk of the mathematics baked in music.
Which you learnt from some wearied Oxford punter
some time past, perhaps it was December
as ice lay on the water
and you stood their cold and wondered
if he was real, absent or maybe altered.
And you count the breaths I make
and understand I want a further explanation
so you talk of a lens you had applied that morning
which placed characters of forgotten novels
in emptied unused places.
It populated your world with fantastical societies
conceived through impression and carried years in your memory
and I asked like a child if I can see the punter too.
And although you invent to please me
here you speak almost harshly
for we both know that lies are only beautiful
when we address them with some truth.
You tell me I cannot see the man upon the river
even if I went back to that past December
and stood there right beside you
and looked at him through your eyes.
In this place now all is darkened
you are sounds without visions
you are the words so accurately chosen
and my silence is my submission…"
"This one is odd to language
This one is ode to us
This one is not for wooing
or appealing to some subjective midnight conjuring.
This one is not free verse because of Whitman
or on loss because of Larkin
This one is not for beat or travel
This one is ode to us.
For your surety and sobriety
and loyalty without demand
This one is for the simple thought
That all I love in you
is all I lack in me.
And when I speak of love I’m not on a mission of alluring
to symbols in nature or darkened undefined passion
but that you are you
and I am me and that alone is satisfying.
This one is for all we have done
and all I hope to do
with the concept of companion in my mind.
This one is as close as I can come
to that unspoken
I could never thank you for
For putting us above the other
despite the pain and gossip of young intelligent people.
This one is ode to us
This one is ode to me
for my dissonance and my regret
This one is not for eloquence or art
This one is ode to feeling
put present, past and true
this one is all I can muster
as my indefinite
apology to you."