Who knows what anyone will make of this, please try to be as constructive as possible though!

What of coffee?
Perhaps we should take it-
On the veranda dearest?
You have hyacinths in your hair.
I have long fingers through mine.

Do you remember the notes we made,
On the backs of Pliny’s letters?
Bloody long, terribly dull-
But meticulous.
Lord we were fools.

“Ummiddia Quadritilla has died,”
You laughed and I cried!
For he had been far to blunt,
As you noted, “he had a knack of being crude.”
Yet I was a little confused-
To see your pretty face so enthused,
So sweet…..

Always with the smell of hyacinth-
Hanging in your hair.
And the scent of orange; creeping across your neck.

Don’t you remember my face?
The days I took the train?
Shouting loudest smiling widest!

For I am old now.
I am tired;
I wear my trousers with the bottoms rolled.
I smoke from my window-
While I eat over the sink.
And I read my paper-
With one eye open and the other closed:

I watch them march.
From my seat on the river bed,
They have Shakespeare hands to his sides,
Head in a noose.
For he does not care!
“For them?”
You say it as if you are shocked,
No he never loved them,
Do I? Of course not!
Am I glad?
Never!

Always with the smell of hyacinth
Hanging in your red hair.
And the scent of orange-
Creeping up your neck.

They will shout, “Beauty must be convulsive!”

Do you remember?
“Regulus lost his son!”
You laughed,
It was a, “misfortune,” that he
Didn’t deserve.
And I cried-
For your face was so absurd,
With stars pockmarked across your skin……

And we will whisper, “Or it will not be at all.”

Each of us should be shot!
I am a liar.
You are the fool.
Andre is such a pessimist.
And dear Pliny so awfully rude.

“I have turned to the remembrance of things past.”

I am old now-
Confused.
My head hangs above your mantel,
While you wear my favourite shoes,
It is utterly baffling.

Perhaps it is time we take coffee, tea and toast.
And then after but only then-
We can dance!

I watch them march.
From my seat on the river bed,
They have Shakespeare hands to his sides,
Head in a noose.
For he does not care!
“For them?”
You say it as if you are shocked,
No he never loved them,
Do I? Of course not!
Am I glad?
Never!

“While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die.”

Always with the smell of hyacinth
Hanging in your red hair.
And the scent of orange-

I will scream, “Beauty must be convulsive,”
And you will whisper, “Or it will not be at all.”
Don’t forget when I go!
I like to wear my trousers with the bottoms rolled.