You Walk Away

In my sad musical pondering,
I see you walk away,
I see your figure disappear,

I am transported from this dingy, musty flat,
Behind the butchers.

What a metaphor,
We spent our last year,
Watching carcasses passing our window,
And being awoken to,
The hammering of flesh,

And the only tenderising taking place,
In our cold rooms,
Were the tenderisings of resolve.

I am transported instead,
To a country lane,
There are no cars,
To all intents and pictoral purposes,
 We could be in a novel by Austen,
Or maybe Hardy,

There are boughs of cherry blossom,
Framing your frame,
As you walk away,
It is spring,
And soon your birthday,
You are 29 forever,

The sunlight comes dappled through,
The blossom and the branches,
As you walk away,
Towards the light,
At the end of the floral canopy.

I take you out of these clothes,
I burn every trace,
Of urban wear (you will later adopt),
That's it,
That's better,

I put you in that long dress,
With sun and moon print that you wore in our early days,
A private poem for us,
Day and night,
Wrong and right,
Black and white,

It is deep sea greens,
And blues like your eyes,
Strong like your thighs,
Heavy like my sighs,

Your dark, warm, rich brown hair,
Cascades freely over your shoulders,
(You deserve that much),
That kink I always loved,
(And you always hated),
Is there (or not),
Picture it as you see fit,

And your motion flows, slows,
Your locks bounce to one side,
And your slender shapely neck,
Is revealed one last time,
The tiny blond hairs,
Catch the light like I never could,
I catch a breath,

With dandelion eyes,
You turn and smile,
Its a sad smile,
A giving smile,

It says;
"I'm sorry,
This could not be"
And,
"I love you more than you can know,
And in a way,
I love you and respect you,
Too much to stay,
You walk away.

This is now how you left me,
Not in a cold damp room,
Behind the butchers,
On my birthday.



M Joseph Burt
(06.03.2012)