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MarkMurphy
126
Canon and Gigue
1
Sunday evening in St Peter’s Gardens, the last sunlight
pushing through clouds of memory
that besiege you in your revelry, claiming
ownership of this girl and that long last love.
Unsurprisingly, night is drawing in again upon you
as you wander over the gravestones alone
and back to your rented rooms
where you drink cheap Polish beer and insist on music.
Even Pachalbel’s grave stirrings cannot soothe
or consume your sadness – where your lady wife
is five years and five thousand miles distant,
hanging to life by a thread, unavailable for comment.