One memory of May, that’s all:
A string quartet. They used to go
To everything together: plays,
And music. Always. She said no;
She had some shopping & a call,
A letter that she had to do.
‘You go though. There’ll be other days.’
‘Of course. No harm done. Right, see you.’
Exiled in the crowded hall.
He heard the violin’s sad praise
Of summer mornings, land arranged
In secret streams & meadow haze
- Howell’s Fantasy Quartet. All through
It he could feel their younger gaze
That asked them when & why they’d changed;
And why they’d gone their separate ways.
Martin Reed
