It's true you've changed. You are
at the dark end
of the street now. If there is time
I'll meet with you not here in fields of gold
canola, not by the old barquero's boat,
not where the water is wide
at river's bend,
not under those tall trees.
In Georgia? I'm
resigned to joining you
beyond the cold
in heaven (if fate will grace us both).
In the early morning,
rain reminds songbirds
that summertime is over. The rainbow is swept
away with autumn leaves. Every colour wades
into your blue eyes.
Crying in the rain
dilutes the drops from cheek to cheek like words
like vows unkept
or curses in a fever that soon fades.
A red, red rose is all
that may remain.
How can I keep from singing
It has the drizzling rain, the street and you.
I read the letter,
where you wrote that time
is a healer, death a nightbird at your door,
but these two cures are taking far too long.
At least I can imagine drinks will do,
at last, what can't be done
by notes and rhyme.
Perhaps it doesn't matter any more.