Wide-eyed, face down,
nose in the grass,
purples and oranges
greens and reds,
three blades
for the price of one,
each waving and weaving
their lurid patterns
drawn in an
ethereal sequence -
beyond the field's edge
Van Morrison whisper-sings...

"Last night she came to me
my young love came in
so softly she entered
that her feet made no din..."

Lightheaded, floating through
corridors of tents and stalls
flicker-lit by torches, cigarettes,
small fires, glow sticks
and the moon leading
legions of galaxies and stars
across heaven murked
in smoke and smells
from woks and charcoals.

"She stepped away from me
and she moved through the fair
Where hand-slapping dealers'
loud shouts rent the air..."

Treading discarded cartons
of half-eaten, sloppy noodles
and greasy falafels
served by tattooed chefs,
long-haired hippies
with vegetarian gifts
and small brown crystals
for unsuspecting urbanites,
weekend adventurers
seeking trips where trips should
never be allowed to go...

"The sunlight around her
did sparkle and play..."

Faces loom in and out;
girls with smiles, tight pants
and bandoliers of jaeger bombs,
boys swaying in their silent dance
with cans of pale ale held high,
faces flickering in the light,
glistening glitter-glint grins,
painted in greens, reds and
purples, the air acrid
and sharp
with josh and sweat

"I dreamt last night
of that far away day,
your hair spread golden
on the ground where we lay..."

Dancing alone under
a cloudless sky;
the moon, now tripled in size,
assumes a lucidity,
a pearl white clarity,
as if purity itself
and time, time, time
has lost all meaning.

"you stepped high
as you move through the fair..."
and fondly I watch as you
move here and move there,
you went your way homeward
with one star awake
as the swan in the evening
moves over the lake..."

You used to read out our horoscopes
over lazy breakfasts with the Sunday rags.
We'd giggle at "romance in unexpected places",
mock "finances are on the rise",
the new moon always "brings profound changes",
and you'd say "hey, it's all just a load of rot".
While I'd sip my coffee in silent acquiescence,
I'd be secretly hoping that perhaps it was not.

When the stars aligned and brought about our conjunction
who could have foreseen what the fates had planned?
If only we'd known then what we know now,
we'd have seen the danger of uniting two sheep-headed rams.
Those signs of fire mistaken for warmth,
now signs of a love burnt out,
all that's left are dying embers
and my thoughts, full of doubts.

Fate, you had eleven other signs to choose from,
my bad luck you sent one like me.
Where-oh-where was soft, gentle Pisces?
Or dreamy-wet Aquarius?
Sweet, virtuous Virgo promising so much loving.
Or a well-balanced Libran stuck on her fence.
I have taken a Capricorn so, so capricious
or even a narcissistic Scorpio.
I mean, at the end of the day
how many times can you be stung?

No doubt you're now reading the stars over breakfast
with some more 'compatible' sign:
A two-faced, backstabbing Gemini,
a flat-headed Taurean bullock ***-machine,
a free-loving, hairy Sagittarian,
that oh-so-perfect-fence-balancing Libran,
or maybe some gorgeous, leonine Leo
has you wrapped up in his golden, free-flowing mane.

But I hope that when the Zodiac finally stops spinning,
your roulette wheel of life comes to rest on black,
and you land up with an ill-tempered decapod,
a hard-shelled, crustaceous, side-walking crab.

Squeezed onto the deck at the back
of a crowded Hammersmith pub,
our wobbling table overlooking the river
barely has enough room for two,
let alone the steak, linguine,
and our bottle of red.

We both take a drink, pausing to watch
a pair of scullers glide down the Thames,
the ripples created by their oars
sparkling in the late evening sun, leaving us
silently jealous of their synchronicity,
their movement so effortless.

I'd arrived early to make sure of a place
and you, with faux fluster, were fashionably late.
You're a writer, a poet, published by Parthian!
Me? A programmer, far more prosaic.
And now with Dutch courage
I said I could do with some inspiration,
but even then the line felt weak.

It could never happen;
there was no connection -
no assonance, consonance, or wild alliteration.
We knew if we rhymed it would be forced and contrived;
we left as separate stanzas
texting with heads fogged by wine.

Years later I bought one of your slim volumes,
curious to see whether a poet might write
about bad dates and nights on the river,
looking for myself between convoluted lines.
Now that I write poems and do my own alliteration
I believe I have finally found inspiration,
so perhaps we did connect after all -
just with a subtler rhyme.