Sometimes it takes forever. Sometimes it was never even there. And sometimes it was right in front of you the whole time.

Tonight, in the midst of this utterly charmless company, amongst these girls who talk and talk without ever visibly admitting breath and these men who will never, not in a million years, be wrong in their own minds, amongst this swirl, this hurricane of nonsense, in the centre of all this was you: fair Lady of restraint. I could see it on your face, not etched there, just perched effortlessly, the patience with which you listened without judgement but with just the slightest frustration shaded in the faint crease between your eyebrows because you are better than this, better than them, but far too good to ever let that show. And I was with you, sitting with you in the stillness. And as I watched you, the strangest thing happened. You grew old. Or rather, I started to see you as old – I saw you as an old woman, right before my eyes. But it didn’t seem strange. It fitted. The age suited you, or maybe you suited the age. Then you seemed young, you seemed to me a child. You were at once young and old and every age in between and you were perfect. I saw you in a hundred ages through a hundred thousand years and in every one you were beautiful. Eternal. And you will achieve great things, then you will ascend greatness and leave it far behind you on your journey to forever, but to me you will always be that moment. The moment that I felt the past at my back and the future before me and the world perfectly poised between the two. The moment it all made sense. The moment you grew old and I knew.

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Eight Lines

October 14, 2010

I wrote an eight-line poem once
Each line was meant for you
It came to me in a sleepy trance
So was half made-up, half true.
But I could not bear to show it
For fear of what you’d do
So for weeks it hid in my pocket
Till the paper had turned blue.

But the poem is so wondrous
So honest and so sincere
That my modesty’s not quite enough
To keep it secret from your ear.
So tonight in this old noisy room
Between the spirits and the beer
I’ll read my eight-line poem
And hope that you can’t quite hear.

What We Did On Our Holidays

October 14, 2010

Photo of him, by you
Photo of you, by him
Photo of you by him, by who?
Photo of view
Photo of view and you, by him
Photo of him and view, by you
Photo of view, him & you, by who?
Photo of tree
Photo of tree & him
Photo of you & him by tree
Photo of shoe, blurred, by you
Photo of bathroom
Photo of empty bathroom
Photo of him in bathroom, by you
Photo of local colour
Photo of sea
Photo of sea, blue, by you
Photo of sea, blue, sky, red
Photo of back of head
Photo at the bottom
Photo at the top
Photo halfway down
Photo halfway up
Photo of mountain from below
Photo of flamenco show
Photo of the beach
Photo using sepia feature
Photo of lizard at an angle
Photo trying to be arty
Photo from some party
Photo to finish the roll off
Photo of your food tray
Photos of your recent holiday