My Blonde Priestess. (New Version).

Perhaps, now that your annual fast is over,
You suddenly thought of me over breakfast
And wished that I was pouring out the coffee,
Passing the toast,
Dipping my spoon into your loganberry jam,
In fact, this pain that has been pounding through
                                                        my brain
Every evening, slightly after eleven,
Reminds me of the headaches that you plagued
                                                          me with
Purely with the power of a thought
Whenever I upset you in the past.

It is now eleven years since I last saw you
On a crowded street in August, just off the main
                                                   drag in Brighton,
The leaves already falling.
You were walking with our daughter up the hill,
Your face almost smothered in a scarf,
Your eyes cast down as you watched your shoes
Tapping out a death march on the pavement.

No, you were not angry as I stood and watched
                                                            you there,
Just aware of a jostling crowd of strangers
Rushing down the hill to find a bar:
And also, unbeknown to me just then,
You were lost in grief for your loved
                                                      grandmother
Who had passed away just the week before.
The grief that you were living through that day
Was far too deep for even me to share.

Yes, we two are very private individuals
Wrapped tightly up in our little worlds
As hermits hide their heads in swathes of cloth.
But at night I sometimes dream you have returned
And are fighting with me for some space in bed.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
July 12th. - 13th. 2016.