London - 1966.

I broke my promise,
I did not visit you,
I sat all alone in the pub
Nursing my self regard
Like a pampered pop star.
Disturbed by your candid truthfulness
I had become afraid of intimacy.

You waited all day in your room
Staring out of the window at the busy street
Hoping to spy the visitor who never came.
The day cooled and darkened,
A shower sluiced the dirt into rivulets of mud.
The weather mirrored your mood.
Your friends told me that you cried then
But you never showed me your tears,
Nor your anger, nor your love,
But your silence was familiar to me.

The next day I arrived on the doorstep,
Dishevelled, unkempt, just like the weather.
You said nothing, your face was a stern mask,
You turned away from my glances. Frozen out
I snatched some chit-chat with your neighbour,
Snippets of news and some general tittle-tattle.
You never said a word, but hunched by the fire
Studied my every move, listening.

And then you stood up, head lowered, just like a nun,
Or maybe a Pre-Raphaelite priestess nursing a grief.
Gently you brushed my face with your fingers
As you slipped passed me, not speaking, to your room.
I stared at the lino, now noting how worn it was,
Spotted by cigarette burns and greasy yellow stains;
The bare patches looked like sacking.

Your father put down his newspaper.

The door closed softly behind you.

Trevor John Karsavin Potter, May 16th.2008 - August 2nd. 2012.
Revised January 6th. 2013.