Skiddaw, Easter Sunday

http://youtu.be/PJ_knVdjruY

To An Old Ex, On Her Birthday

Why do I do this, why torture myself
With these visions of summer hedgerows
Laden heavy with fragrant blossoms;
And Chichester harbour, the masts of yachts
At the bottom of opulent lawned gardens,
Roman palaces once found underneath;
Mosaics we once paid a pound to see?

Why do I do this, why do I even allow
You in my dreams and musings?
Even though I know you’re now
Fifty-six years old, wherever you are.

Uncharitable, but true. So,
Why do I do this; why does my mind’s gunsight always zero in
On 1986? Now, in my cold monastic cell, my wizened hovel?
How did I ever once go, down those green lanes
Leading to sea; pull up outside your flat
In a spray of gravel, twenty-seven years ago?

And here’s this damaged Polaroid, its
emulsion gaudy and dateless as a memorial window,
Of you tending the barbie – Oh, summer days,
Down at that railway carriage in the sands
That served as changing room and chalet. Surely

Somewhere, it must always be that seaside summer;
Witterings Beach, with ‘Uptown Girl’ on the stereo,
While the sun was always warm and westering
And we in our brown skins were both blessed with salt.

Anyway, I’m sorry.

I seem to say that, more and more, these days,
To a range of disappointed girls, some historical,
Some even dead: the rest are photographs.
And some days, hot remorse
Courses through my veins like mercury
I’ve not done very well; it must be said.

I hope you’re still OK, and doing fine;
Much as I miss your face, your hair, the candleight, the wine,
Perhaps you’re better off a haunting dream -
I wouldn’t wish you shared this shrivelled life of mine.