She was my fresh air,
Out of a stifled room,
She was my refuge beyond compare,
When all seemed gloom.

And now, her vision still stabs, quite sharp,
But not with violins, or roses, or harp,
No, just a little sigh, when I recollect her swoon,
Under the roses, Back Hessle Terrace, One June.

Thirty years has somehow passed,
And most of that indecent fast,
With pain, with joy,
But from first to last,
Little change, My Boy.

Retracing the steps, from the first time around,
But by myself, with time to spare,
To think, to dare
The memories abound.

The flagstones are the same unique, crack patterned lane,
Of a life.

Enough remains to bolster my mind,
But the pain is warm, of the welcoming kind,
For every place had its time,
And every time its place,
Even if now it’s diluted by knowledge and grace.

For though tempered by time,
Some thoughts burn as bright,
Tennis court by day,
Kiss by those roses, that night,
For wherever, whenever, my travels might be,
Still a part of me’s here,
A part of here’s me.