Nima lays on the green grass
in St James's Park
her head resting
on her hands,
her eyes following
puffy white clouds.

I lay beside her
relaxing after the jaunt
across the West End
before meeting her
by Trafalgar Square.

The Coltrane LP
by my side.

What's beyond
the horizon?
She asks.

Black space,
dead stars
and maybe planets.  

But beyond them,
what's there?

God knows
and He isn't
letting on,
I say.

I'm lucky
to be here today;
the doctor said
he wasn’t happy
with me.

Why's that?
what have you
been up to?

She looks at me;
her eyes dull,
her hair untidy.

The drug issue
is not going so well.

I see her arms
are punctured anew.

I said I was seeing
my mother and she'd
bring me back,
but she won't of course,
Nima says,
looking away.

I can see you back
to the hospital.

No, I'll tell him
she dropped me off
and had to go off
some place else.

But that’s not true is it;
how do you expect
to get better
if you don't go along
with the doctor's regime?

Truth or untruth,
either side
of the same coin;  
I’ll kick the habit
when I'm good
and ready.

I doubt it;
you will never
want to,
until too late.

Too late, too soon;
what's time
in this sad cocoon?
I want a fix
and I want a ****.

She sits up
and shakes her head,
brushing grass
hanging loose.

Coffee will have to do,
I say,
and we get up
and walk slowly
away.