Five Years On
For F.S.

I hired horsemen, flirted with fools and pages,
   but no extra wages
would entice them into my plot. The space between
   our hearts would take ages

to cross, and the forgotten resembles an Arctic
   in its lack of variation.
And so it was up to me to find you, left
   only this static station,

the old electricity of your heart. Five years
   have eroded your voice,
your logic, your tendency for treason and all
   that's not damaged or lost

is this curse of a desire long out of season.
   Mystery relies upon time -
the slow build up, the rapid decline - but I've lost
...