The day spreads out its taut fingers bringing into
a ball the afternoon, allowing the odd bright
ray to fall on Barnagh Hill, now Rooska,
tempting us outside, ah but only to be met
with drops on the wind,rustling of willow.
You come back to me draped by your shadow, your head
faces south - only I know you're there. The one
now at my table looking out is using words
which I gather, scoop up, hear the radio tune;
he says, Let it on, it's Freddy Mercury.
He pours the tea not knowing that you're around
(how could I tell him - I can see the look he'd give me).
This, after all,is his way of being sound,
of lifting me, of gently patching up my mind,
of leading me from this window view
where I have this lasting thought of seeing you.
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