On the radio
Bach celebrating
the Epiphany of Our Lord
(such grace and purpose
my music is yet to know),
I hear your sad voice
on the telephone
with the ‘blues so bad’,
friendless and alone.
I am ashamed; that for me
there should remain so many questions
yet to answer, and that this loneliness
you feel I rarely know,
so caught up in life am I.

For so long
I’ve had your photo framed.
Though black and white
I always see the colours:
the brown lustre of your careful hair,
your eyes of almost jade-like green,
the Guernsey red of your sweater
and that particular check of the shirt
I once unbuttoned all the way
to place my hands against your *******
that imperceptibly rose to kiss my fingers,
and when uncovered touched each palm
as if a benediction on this love we own.

Please know you are my dearest friend;
that you may reach out your hand to me
and I will grasp it with love and care
and much affection, passionate still
despite and even though
I am at sea myself
and drowning slowly
in my shame,
frightened by despair
that it should be so.