'I am open to the possibility' you said,

'of love with you, at least I was,

then something happened which drove me quite mad.'

 

Love is not a possibility

a stranger at the door

you may invite inside

if fancy takes you;

 

Love is not a beggar

after a bowl of soup

which you can refuse

if your day’s been rough;

 

Love is not a tree in the garden

which you planted

on spring's first stirrings

when you felt strong;

 

Love is not offered you

like a small cheque

for a race you entered

when you felt bold.

 

Love is a trap-door in the ground

which opens when you are passing

like a thunderclap

like a seizure

and you are swallowed

however bold

however frozen

however cold.