perhaps it has always been so
the imagined love more real
(how coffee smells and coffee tastes
in darkly different ways)
no fresh and bitter tale.
he would come, pursued
consort me in his artless balm
protect me from each native harm
(o lingering kiss! o soft centred bliss!)
then life begat me you
satyr like, unwilling smiles
still noble in your careless way
(so wild as night and wizened storms
an angry man his heart grieving).
now, we fight and shake each day
alive, adept, consumed in different ways.
tart as lemons, crisp as the morning sun
with time to cry, we love.
Gar Jones: June 1995