I found myself in Putney after many stupid years. It was a worthless day before spring comes with all its biting powers. There was nothing there in Putney but that February hearse and all the villainy of incredible memory born out of pointless love and hope that blackmails. There was traffic there, that endless vicious fume of noise; and litter blowing pointlessly; savage parents; hard and worried kids; the thundering mess of London all around; a hop of sparrows on that pointless ground. I found myself in Putney where I lost myself so many stupid years ago, and by that withered house a withered love arose. “Ah, love,” I whispered, “why have you arisen?” “You acknowledge me?” she said. “Of course,” I answered. “Put your arm across my breast,” she said. “Touch my still hair. Weep plentifully. “Let your poor heart break. Strike here across my cheek “To know what you have lost.” “My love,” I whispered, “why have you arisen?” (From the withered house the years were toppling.) “Stupid questions from a stupid man. “You loved me and you lost me.” Then the roar of London hurt my head. I saw a man go down a street Where no street was, where no man was.
penultimate poem in "Love" Poems For Kathy written some years after the end