People who indulge in tittle-tattle and rumour
put me in a bad humour.
Without wishing to be unduly formal
I can state that as a rule reality is pretty normal,
which I suppose explains the fun to be had
by folk who reckon they can add
two and two, but almost invariably make it more
than what it should be, viz., i.e., or to wit, four.
Call me cynical,
but too many people's approach to the truth is far from clinical.
So it no longer gives me any surprise to
know the conjectures that the simplest remark can give rise to.
A ****** of overheard conversation
in all likelihood has a very mundane explanation,
on account of (as I said before) reality
for most of us being of a mind-numbing banality.
The interest that rumour-mongers can find,
in the further imaginative reaches of the mind,
however, is considerably higher.
But then they have the effrontery to attempt to justify
     their outrageous speculations by claiming that there's
     no smoke without fire,

Would it be possible for me to feel friendship
for one I had never seen,
except in a blurred photo?
one whose voice I had never heard,
not even a phone-call,
not even a recording?

Would it be possible for me to love
one who had been a true friend,
who used to say she loved me,
but now felt nothing for me
but bitterness and anger?

Would it be possible for me to have confidence
in one who didn't write to me any more,
who would never read
what I had written?
who never let me read
what she had written?

Would it be possible for me to trust again
one who had told me very firmly
that she never lied,
but later admitted
without shame
that she had deceived me,
broken that trust,
almost as if she were proud of it?

Would it be possible for me to understand
how she could feel as she did,
when she refused to tell me?

Would it be possible for me to understand
if she did tell me?

The answers are
Yes
No
Maybe.

But which answer
might go with which question
I have no way of knowing.

So quiet now, the ripples
    lapping on the shore
scarcely disturb the silence:
    a whisper, no more.
    But who knows the power
the growing breakers may have
    in another hour?

Have we known each other forever?
Might we have met before,
in another life?  
But where and when,
or how it might have happened,
I cannot know.
And in that other possible world
did we know each other
in good times and bad?

Were we friends?
Good friends?
Possibly lovers?
Or simply strangers,
occupying the same universe,
not knowing each other,
but destined to meet again
in different circumstances?

And shall we go on through time,
meeting and parting
again and again,
with pleasure or regret,
or, most likely, a mixture of the two?

I only know that your eyes,
your smile,
speak to me in a language of their own,
which I hope will continue
while we both exist,
in this world or another.

Have we known each other forever?
Or might we simply have met in another life?
But where and when,
or how it might have happened,
I cannot know.
And in that possible world
did we know each other
in good times and bad?

Were we friends?
Good friends?
Possibly lovers?
Or just strangers,
occupying the same universe,
not knowing each other at all,
but destined to meet again
in different circumstances?

Shall we go on through time,
meeting and parting
again and again,
with pleasure or regret,
or, most likely, a mixture of the two?

I only know that your eyes,
your smile,
speak to me in a language of their own,
which I hope will continue
while we both exist,
in this world or another.