Through the segments of the parlour-room window,
frosted like a grab-handle tankard,
you are sitting where we used to sit.
Across the pub’s jaundiced light
I look in on our last session, side-long,
trying not to disprove you.
Your hair darker now, dark as it ever was.
Same brimming laughter in your eyes
from where you would sing,
lend your living voice
to whichever song was flitting through,
ceasing the pub chatter, dimming the lights further.
Above me a faded-flower glass lantern
feels like it should explode into fragments,
paused forever in that instant before.
From the murk of my pint, I keep track carefully.
If I looked clearly through the window
you would not be who you are.
Published in 'The Seventh Quarry'