She turned the exaltation of regret

            Into an art

            A handkerchief became a source of acrimony,

            Every singer’s voice was flat

            And men embodied empty-headedness

            Compared to what she had

            Which in possession, when possessed,

            Lay dormant for a future

            Always out of reach

            Though less an artist

            He felt, frankly, much the same,

            With different cues –

            For him a turn of phrase was twisted

            And the airs of women, once delightful, 

            Parched

            The children seemed to sour and bend

            Within their arc

            Like drunken insects never quite

            Locating hive or hill

            Now, after years apart,

            They held a hand out to each other

            Like a makeshift bridge

            On the proscenium

            Somehow they found the power

            To abscond

            And took a stroll along the strand

            Bereft of audience –

            The more to rue, perhaps

            Lucky for them that night

            A length of cloud stretched low

            Across the waters

            Like forgotten lace

            The stars, the same old unfamiliar stars,

            Created shadows

            She let the mountains in the distance

            Speak for her,

            He let the sea

            Between them both 

            An incense sweet and pungent

            Rose and dissipated quickly overhead,

            Their cooling signature