I was accused recently by Goldie of suddenly going all romantic. In truth I have always considered myself to be a romantic at heart and, if occasionally, my expressed thoughts turn to lust or to sarcasm or to cynicism this is only to hide the nervous, gentle little teenage boy who took carefully concealed glimpses at the girls on the school bus so teasingly hidden within their short school dresses and within all their mystery. He is still there within me.
But in matters of the heart honestly can be an illusive entity – and I know the form that it’s opposite takes in men. Women, of course, I trust implicitly.
I think that Cyranny may have been hinting at that recently so, once again, I take the idea from her. And I hope that Goldie might be more comfortable with my lack of romanticism in this instance.
**
A phone call from a lover
A little tale to cover
Every hidden part
Of his meaning
And of his heart
Just the start
Of his scheming
To keep the ball in play
But never to say
Who will win or lose
But to choose
In his head
To hold possession
With no aggression
And no eyes
But instead
With carefully crafted lies
That will not say. Or betray
What has been rehearsed
And so sweetly conversed
He has thrown you a rope
But it is your choice to be naïve
And to believe
What you would hope
To be true
And conceive
Of something new
Clinging
To a dream
Singing
Of your joy
For this boy
All alone
On the phone
Only a call
You don’t see him at all
Pretending he would ever really care
Pretending he was ever really there
**
Richmond Road 