Admission.

 

As vaunted independence toasts its self-sustaining charms

and insufficient harvests hinder isolated farms,

the narrow paths to solitude that answer most alarms

cannot approach the paucity that troubles empty arms.

 

 

Toast.

 

I could smell toast as I opened the door,

toast I had eaten hours before;

the buttered aroma reordered the room.

The ghostly, particulate breath of perfume,

unbidden and soluble memories of you

gave way to the comfort it formerly knew.

But the difference imparted a subtler tone

to the savoury silence of being alone

and solitude's offer of freedom and peace

concealed in the giving a limited lease.

 

 

The Spell.

 

I know precisely what I’m missing

watching strolling couples kissing,

balancing their measured paces

tilting into sweet embraces;

safe and certain, sage and sure

their love will deepen and endure.

Unless the mood I’m shackled in

is shorn of hope, then I begin

to think those ardent lovers fools

who think that ardour never cools,

or can’t conceive that what they share

is not so pure, and not so rare.

But ultimately envy wins

and, disegarding other sins,

I take my favoured place with those

who damn the wretched cynic’s pose;

and wishing strolling lovers well,

I wish myself bound by that spell.