Still Waters

Thoughts of You.

Splashing down pavements small rivulets flow – 
passing close by at the end of your street;
legs and feet soaked to the tips of my toes;
thoughts turn to you and when we’ll next meet.
A few days ago we sat in the park,
‘And what would you write about now,’ you cried
as the twilight turned to a dusky dark.
‘The rush of wind in the treetops,’ I lied.
Then walking alone as dusk turned to night
the lamp glare defined the thoughts in my head.
As rain cut to white the glare of the light,
I thought of the words that were left unsaid.
I’d say – of you, I’d write only of you –
but perhaps deep within, you knew that too.