Dragonflies are playing on the terrace;
the pools reflect back jade-green and gold.
Each one casts its gleam on the other.
And if you asked me to describe the scene,
I’d kiss you on the forehead and say never,
for what is the use of this empty talk;
Better to join our unwritten hands
and walk through the hyacinths together.
The final time, after which I promised
never to do that again
We are cold, and it is January.
Everyone else is elsewhere.
I give you the details,
because they are the fringes
of all that you fill in.
We are looking at the colours
Vibrating across the slow tongue
of Thamesine sediment green.
Putney Wharf, late afternoon
lights up propagating coldly
Reds and purples, burning blue.
Never happening again, I promise you.
I think you believed me; I think you knew
else I would have kept it – the promise,
to ourselves always, forever new,
burning angry, boldly burning
hot and burning true.