23 August 2011


Actually, this is one I wrote ages ago, when life was very different.  I found it in the loft this week and thought it worth publishing here.

A man alone
Soon finds time
To question his being —
And why life finds him so entrancing
As to share him with

Company gone,
Solitude returns
Bringing only grief
Like a jealous friend
Grieved that he can love

She has nought to say —
Save that awsome silence
That cries out
In pitiable anguish,
Why can you not cherish

How can he love
One who gives him nothing
But, constant, reminds him of
What might be
If only there were

She who is warm,
She who is tender,
She whose love throbs and thrills.
She whose beauty dazzles
The noon-day sun and stills

Yet here there is pain
At wasted love
In endless time soon over.
Having smashed us on its reefs
It casts us on its shore to die

Copyright © 1980 Desmond Hilary