I think you came back far too soon,
hardly knew you’d been away,
but if you wish to learn my tune,
I think you ought to stay.

Don’t know who I’m addressing now,
your face changes as I speak,
and who would listen anyhow
or surrender to seek?

Juliet still calls from her balcony,
but you cannot answer anymore.
That part was always for the younger man,
not the one the sea wrecked on the shore.

Liked the news of the Philae Probe,
landed on a comet’s back.
Astronomic joy round the globe
transmitted to my track.

Boadicea still rides in her chariot,
leads the Iceni, defying Rome.
You first loved her name in your schoolboy book,
woke you like waves and flying foam.

I have not the skill to carve my rune,
only will for words to stay,
but I know I’ve still got my tune,
I never learned to pray.

Joan of Arc still speaks of her angel host
who came to help her save her land.
Like others you gave your heart to her,
but she held a sword and not your hand.

I knew you when your eyes were green,
before the sepia smear.
Over the bridge, we no longer lean,
the river runs less clear.




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