By early evening I’d stumbled onto
shores of lost adulthood,
where wooden lodge overlooks the mountain,
and kissed the moon goodnight.
And through poor-lit doorway, soft-lit behind,
an old friend waved to me,
singing songs of love, singing songs I’d love,
armchair turned towards the sea.

It’s dark, but there’s coffee in
the kitchen; there’s bluebells under
the windowsill.

There was a tenderness beneath his eyes,
there was no more poetry.
There was a dining table set that night,
he’d cooked a Sunday-dinner.
I doubt anyone would believe me if
I said he looked happy.
But did you know I was three months off
asking you to marry me?

He’s sat by the window and
the sun is setting; but I might
see you again.

Trying to balance, ******, home by myself,
in alien cities,
was how I spent the next four weeks, while you
fell into another.
Time to go home, but I ain’t got no home,
good friend’s don’t even know,
that car’ying shrapnel’s pretty nice, when you
got to walk home alone.

It’s hard now to remember,
but last time I saw you, I was
in love with you.

The little island in the half-sunk beach
was where I stayed that night,
was where I loned, got drunk in it, then
each day got drunk some more.
Wild, the memories we had, but we had enough,
for you I knew,
she’s long-gone now,
this forest has come undone.

Ness Boy sat by the window,
thinking about those years, watching
the end of them.