It should be you,
Inescapably,
Who walks with me at night through
Empty country lanes,
Shouting and screaming into the sky,
Distressing doddery old men,
And quiet little kids,
Who, sleeping in warm and glowing cottages, will know us,
Transitory,
Burning, Flickering.
It should be you who
Squeals with laughter
Down nostalgic pathways in the dark
By the playground.
And sliding, spinning, flying,
Like sweet precious things in the moonlight.
Pale skin fluorescent,
Eyes shining and full-toothed smiles
Gleaming,
Young and bright.
It should be you,
Surely,
Who runs with me on
Pale, white, wet sands.
Hearts pumping and blood racing,
Coursing through our veins and
Now down and rolling in the reeds,
Tussle, fight and wrestle
Kicking up sand to the moon,
Floating, falling.
It should
Be you,
Who perching on a rock towards the sea,
With foreheads met and hair whipping
In the wind,
Who tilts your head and takes on red lip against
Red lip
And eternally and endlessly
That night would have been
Ours.