I tried to write to you tonight.
Somewhere between “my dearest”
—which no longer means exactly what it used to—
and the all-my-love pretence that we
can still confide
I stopped. A memory of
whispering of tangling truths in hair
as dark as morning,
sharing
hopes and awesome trivialities because alone
above all things allPeople and always
we were
(how slyly WE ARE
became WERE just when we’d decided
words no longer mattered.)

Trust was total. I’d have told you
anything. Nights spent with you hold more of me
than all anthologies. If I sound bitter
—o my precious lover—it is just the tears you taught
me how to cry (one lady would approve.)
I do not doubt your love: yet mine’s maturer,
has lost something of the edge of innocence
—keen only as my loss of you.

Words never could create the child
who showed me Everything but there was less a
need for words when you were never more away
from me than pillows are
—now all 200miles ,6months and more than we can talk about
keep me from holding you
wheneven
we arrange to meet.
Yet I can’t help a heart compelled to tangle
in your hair
nor hands that stray to where they found
their gentlest work.

Be patient with a one who’s learning still,
now how to cope with love sans kisses deep
sans cuddles,
politics at 2am sans your first
cup of tea sans my first
time sans
sleeping
,waking
sighing warm beside you

(some things I learn quickly but, love, this
is taking a long time.)

~ Martin Baker

Collected Poems: 1979-1984

Paperback (97 pages), PDF download and on Kindle
ISBN: 978-1-4092-2268-2
Publisher: Lulu.com #3112741
First Edition © 2008 Martin Baker

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