I
perhaps should have suspected
as
we watched swallows gather
in
punctuated groups on high-wire lines
that
this would be an end
I
noted how they were crotchets on a stave
you
rejected the cliché
but
at that moment
as
if to save me
from
an open window a nocturne played
and
became the cooling breath
of
that September evening
finding
its way to an imperfect cadence
classic
pianissimo
the
music dying
into
an uproarious silence
between
us
and
your attention drifted
to
a purple horizon
where
the moon was climbing -
a
cream minim
floating
in ink
my
hand found your shoulder
and
thoughtless fingers
played
the coarse seam
of
your cotton white blouse
creeping
from soft nape
to
the shrug at the joint
I
sensed your tension
and
the chilling breeze
and
now you are no longer here
to empty my thoughts
and
I swallow the lyrics I wish I had sung
