In darkness quivering stark and cold,
you rise to walk with blackened soles
carrying me street by street
whistling memories on two bare feet,
to find our next corner to stand -
as proud as archers, bow in hand.
You’d lean on me and close your eyes,
imagine worlds of light and sigh,
then play (your bow brushing against me)
our next melody. And you see,
we’d sing together, quivering
fingers on my cold hard strings –
thinking of somewhere
a little far from here.
(I know - I really do - that we’re imagining
completely different things.
But I want to pretend