Unsure on a pavement in Waterloo
and the summer, in its last chapter, was darkened
and you ran through it
though uncertain and clutching a book
your heart caught in its pages
treading another country’s hours, years, the past
shaking off your present like your jacket
so I caught it in my arms
and longed to touch
as you passed with a hair’s breadth.
But I saw a woman in the shadows
her heart full, full
of all the years of unwritten things
and of all the times of knowing
and the man going
where she knew she could not follow.