Walking through the streets
with all these dreams and ghosts,
caught by a shiver of moon,
a passing cloud -

a passing moment of perfection
in a sigh of stars,
that bathe me
in their distant glory.

Walking through the streets,
my heart a waiting murmur,
my lips now pause for breath,
one word: your name -

and now the night
(this miracle,
transformed)
is made of new beginnings.

Walking through the streets,
deep inside the winter night,
my breath is warm and wonder -
longing, whispering to you.

Tonight I’ll disconnect the phone
and lock all doors
and close the curtains.

It will be me and my TV,
some sushi maybe
and some wine.

The couch and comfy cushions
now a small tropical island
in a sea of quiet bliss.

I’ll start with something light
and frothy - something
that will make me smile:

‘Arsenic and Old Lace’ or
‘Beauty and the Beast‘,
‘Great Expectations’ maybe,

before it’s time to brace myself,
to go all-out for perfect bliss -
a box of hankies at the ready.

Yes, for here we are again:
in Paris and in black & white -
and yes of course: it’s raining.

Two people meet and fall in love
while Europe’s burning
and the armies march.

Then, of course, their time runs out
and they must part and say goodbye
amidst the smoke of waiting trains.

(A station is the best farewell:
its sounds and smells so redolent
of love and desolation.)

The camera now shuts its eyes
and when it dares to look again
it is upon a different scene -

another place, another time,
of deserts and of nightclubs,
of nazi boots and gambling debts:

a place without much hope,
but that for some has now become
their lonely bit of exile.

So, enter Rick into his bar,
a cigarette between his lips,
a hat that’s almost jaunty…

… and well, you know the story,
don’t you…? Everybody surely knows
this movie: Casablanca.

Those images of hope and loss,
of grief and laughter - all those
long goodbyes and then those songs:

“You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply as time goes by.”

A perfect movie and a perfect ending.
Sad, of course, for yes,
it’s yet another parting…

But what a world to visit once again,
where everything must always be about
these old, familiar enchantments.

Love and loss – and duty, honour
and the faith that all of this will conquer evil
conquer shadows, conquer time.

( ‘As time goes by.’)

The glamour of your face,
your hair now loosened in dark waves:

the sudden rightness of these moments -
all of me now here in trembling awe,
kneeling (praying)
tongue-tied to your flesh
and rising heat.

(I need - I need so much to see you,
taste you on my skin,
embrace you
and lay waste to years of caution,
soft despair and waiting.)

The earth-bound magic of the flesh
that like the rain
must dress the land
in moist and blooming sweat,
must now - must come to me.

I enter your calm waves and senses
(how I need - yes, how I need
these bones and dreams and you.)
My Lady of these morrows and these nights,
my storm and sky and anchor:

hold me here in birth and death
and senseless, sheer delight.

(I can see the shape of your dreaming
and touch the stem of your breath.)

Your lips surround me now.
You take me in,

like flames that taste
the heart of the wood,

and words on skin
or bone-carved flutes,

like a shock of warmth,
as the butcher’s hand

or a priest holds up
the heart of the Lamb.

Your lips surround me now.
You take me in.

(I can see the shape of your dreaming
and hold the weight of your breath.)

The grain of the wood,
fastened and softened
by time and breath;

these pebbles so smooth,
coated and left
with the silk of dead waves;

and you, all of you, your flesh
so awake to my longing, my touch -
and more beautiful yet

than all these reminders
that night will embrace us
and change us in time.

Waking to the moment of your touch
I hold my breath and body
like an altar, like a kiss.

(I want to hold your breath
upon my tongue; I want to
weigh your touch upon my skin.)

As the light needs an horizon
to submit its colours
to the weight of night

(I want your eyes on me,
all over me,
your lips to take me in)

I need you to possess me
and undress me
to the bone.

You’re like a Rembrandt,
painted on the edges of slow
moving, moonlit clouds,

a promise that the world
is full of wonders,
new beginnings and encounters.

My love, you’re all the stories
that will start
tomorrow or tonight,

and all the waiting
turned to soft applause
and laughter,

all the moments that are
left for me to love and
hold you till the end of light.

And when it ends
it grows so quiet.

Logic has a weight to it
and so does magic.

Love,
when it is gone,

moves beyond time
and distance

and it grows so quiet.

Some journeys start like stories,
some like dreams.

(I can see the shape of your dreaming
and touch the hem of your breath;

these sheets, dressed in darkness,
touching your flesh.)

Strange journeys,
strange frontiers,

where some things end in stories,
others move like dreams.

(I can’t see my skin
through these fields of you;

all my seasons bound
to a touch of you.)

When it’s too late it is too late for everything.

Too late to tell her how much you love her. How much you loved to see her move between the kitchen table and the stove, from power suit to garden clothes, from the old dressoir to your shared bed – from morning till evening, till morning again…

She’s gone - beyond your calling. Beyond taste, and touch, and smell. What lingers is regret: you should have said this, or done that. You could have done more – could have done things differently.

But you did not -or you could not. It’s the same thing really, in the end. And it did end – and she is gone.

You remember the first time the two of you met. It was a Tuesday morning, in a car park, of all places. You had been late for work. She had dropped some papers. One look at her worried face, her wind-blown hair, those lovely but unpractical shoes and you were lost. You helped her gather her papers. One or two had escaped beyond recovery but she thanked you warmly anyway. She smiled at you and you were lost all over again: twice lost within minutes – beyond recovery: you were worse than those damn papers…

You gathered your courage and asked if you could have her number.

She said:

“No, but we could have a coffee after work, if you want.”

Yes, you didn’t know but she worked at the same office as you did. She was in management, while you were still working your way up to those heights, from your lowly cubicle. She had seen you a few times before, from her office window, when she was already at work and you were late again.

That’s how it started – and you were married six months later. Eight happy years of marriage. No children yet: there was no hurry – they were both still young.

Now, there won’t be children. No presents under Christmas trees, no worrying over bucked teeth, or playground bullying. No future boyfriends or girlfriends to weigh up. No future altogether.

When it’s too late, it is too late for everything – and it doesn’t even matter much how it does or did or will end. It can be a car crash: one moment of inattention while the two of you are returning home from a movie. You are driving, of course. She’s telling you about the lead actor’s crazy ex-wife. You laugh with her, when she reaches the punch line.

Someone crosses a red light. You wake up in the hospital: you’re basically alright – a few broken bones but nothing major. She died in the car, while you were unconscious. You didn’t even feel her warm blood spilling over you, or her dying words, if there were any.

Or it could have been following one of those regular visits to the doctor. Some vague and threatening shadow on an X-ray. A brain tumor or something in the lungs, the heart, kidneys or liver. There are so many ways for a loved one to die. The flesh you love to hold and the mind that lives there are so fragile.

Or maybe you just went mad and fucked someone else’s secretary at work. Some blonde, gum-chewing funny girl. With just enough brains and just enough heart to be interesting and alluring. Unknown flesh, and the old desires, suddenly burning again – beyond reason, beyond vows, beyond love itself.

And when she found out, she didn’t even cry in your presence, or curse you out. She just left – as you knew she would.

When it’s too late, it is too late for everything. For words of love, for forgiveness, for redemption. Broken pieces are just that. You can try to pick them up – but you can’t rearrange them, like the fallen pages of some annual report. You can’t find meaning in shards of bone or ashes. There is no meaning in death and loss.

When it’s too late it is too late for everything.

“Why are you looking so grim.” she asks, entering the living room, still rearranging her hair.

She smells of that new perfume you gave her last month, for your wedding anniversary.

“No reason.” you say, “just thinking.”

“Stop thinking then.” she says.

“I already have.”

“You’ll behave when I’m gone?” she asks.

“I promise.”

She smiles down at you.

“Now don’t go all gloomy, you hear!”

You smile back up at her, from your lazy chair.

“It’s only for a week.” she says; “I won’t be gone forever.”

She walks over to where you sit, kneels before you and takes your hands in hers. Then she stands up again, bows over, kisses you softly on your mouth and looks you into your eyes.

“You’ll be okay?” she asks; ‘Really okay?”

You smile at her again, and say:

“Of course. It’s like you say, It won’t be forever…”

You go your way
I’ll go your way too
(Leonard Cohen)