He carried a torch for me
far
longer than was healthy.
I
knew this by the cards,
and
the telephones pleading cry in the night
that
I stopped giving answer to.
Forty
years would pass before I watched
his
father cross Bold Street,
and
I saw the man he had grown into.
I
did not rush outside,
nor
did I think of him again.
He
carried the torch.
Seated
in the anonymous window
of
a nameless tea-house,
I
hid beneath a sun
that
sucked the light from his hand.
Bold Street is in Liverpool. I imaged the narrator sat in one of the tea houses there suddenly seeing a person from her past walk by.this is only the first draft- watch this space.
I was listening to Serafina Steer today. Here's a live video.
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