Seven years ago, after a nightmare weekend
spent recanting vows, undreaming dreams,
two dancers - tired of dancing, wary
of the heat of one another's breath,
we said goodbye at St Pancras.
I'd never felt so relieved, yet so sad
to see a train grumble away into the night
a one-time ‘everything’ in its coach,
her Valentino fading by the minute
like the heat of the sun at dusk.
Today I spot her on a Stratford platform,
fully refurbished, as elegant as ever,
eyes shining like a headhunter's torch,
and tongue slicing at corners of her mouth
like flame from the mouth of a dragon.
I rise with laughter in my heart, drifting
towards the pull of her crystals, wild embers
frisking my body and my spirit for hints
of emotional violence, or resentment.
She reaps only pleasure and a warm hug.
It takes just ten minutes to download updates
that mutual friend gossip had not spilled, before
she walks away with the dreadlocked bloke
she loves now, until another seven years,
perhaps, at another London train station.
(to Ezinne Hannah Azuonye)
I laughed an error out of my life today.
Never knew I had power of will that strong.
Then I remembered the spirit of your love,
mother, O golden martinet glitter on, and on,
mould my middle years with the same
soothing fires that forged my youth.