It’s okay, isn’t it, that we don’t mean
The same to each other? And does it really
Hurt that you’re something of a token for
A time, you may not even mark as important?
–
Because I don’t expect you to remember
When you read “Adlestrop”— your voice,
Above autumn weather, like a summer day:
Longed for and then slowly blown in.
–
And that faint impression of you is a part
Of a feeling now: the one that will arrive on
Quaint train platforms, or when I think of
The days kept for the scared and sentimental.
–
Then, when chance closes that useful rift,
You have the grace to nod in knowing recollection
When I bring it up to you. And, with mercy,
You say little more— a final gift to me.
Uncultured Review 