“It’s different”, she said to me, her eyes blazing

with the ferocity of one caught in the act of shielding

her pupils against the sudden rush of sunlight

that had crept over the green lush hill

full of potential and the intoxicating aroma

of diverse flowers flowing on the wings of Apollo,

not a rose in sight to pour scorn over.

 

“It’s as if the dance we had is the same,

the tune vaguely familiar and interesting, but the steps,

the ones we learned together, have now been altered.”

I smiled at the thought, Time passes after all

but I had never got the hang of dancing

so the steps to me were always clumsy, awkward,

full of the art of flirtation but never carried through.

 

“I prefer to think of it that we are two steam trains,

left on the same station platform, the summer crowds

heading on a day out to Dawlish Warren

and those unfortunate enough to have their ties

knotted in place around their necks

climbing aboard the other one, we were parked

side by side but have a different whistle to play by.”

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.