1

Twice I've gone as far as the High Street phone.
For no good reason. But to rein in passion.
August in London. Making time my own.
For while sun comes and goes, love is on ration,

lying open to the weather, on heat,
on hold. And I was never one for halfway
houses, never did learn to compete
with mild-mannered sisters, cope with rebuff,

temper quarrels with jokes. Freak storms with sighs
like small rain when drought's at the door. False comfort
to borrow heat from the sun when sun lies
under leaf, heat under cold. 'Temperate'

let's call it, for it cuts both ways, this trope
to prove even a full sun brings false hope.


2

To prove even a full sun brings false hope,
largesse earns little thanks, recall a cot
...