"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
we walked down Sardinia Street in silence again.
you with your thoughts and I with my coffee, clutched between cold hands.
This March chill whispering its cold song through ragged hair.
Reaching into your pocket, of your old wax coat – that smells of bonfires and old grass,
you look for something to fill our little gap of words.
Searching for something that I can hang upon and savour, like the tart lemon drizzle I would make you in summer.
But instead all I hear is the sighing of the trees in Lincolns Inn Fields, they stretch to save our rendez-vouz
and breathe warm sweet air between the space in which we do not touch.
You court the idea of speech for the sake of speaking.
I can see the quivver you have above your dimple as you chew your cheek.
you scuff your shoes on the pebbledash path, and you smiled and let out the warmth in you.
And I smiled because I knew.