It seems strange to have reached inevitability.
Behind the window, something of sunshine on concrete:
August in Soho, and the sky
In my memory like a muslin of white wine and steam.
To relive is to meet again: self-aware,
Drinking coffee, on guard and showing off
To climb the soft red stairs once more,
Quietly, as you please, a white hall with three closed doors.
Really, the wind across a car park is all I remember.
That, and tripping redhead steps, the bright glistening
Cold of the North Sea between us;
Your mother watching from the beach.
I thought of her grey hair and your new magazine.
And now I have grown into and out of myself.
Beyond me, half-sensed and broad, blank Europe waits,
Grown restless and profound in expectation.