Wednesday, 16 November 2016

Auden and I...

Auden and I

Sitting in my cosy corner,
Conversing with Auden
And sharing a malt or two.
Black birds flying towards the night.
Yes, Auden, you know who.
The rich red of the evening,
The fleeing of the light,
Making friendship for us pair,
For all his world as if I were really there.
From the amber we spoke tight.
Birds and clocks and time and grief,
And how life gives
Then robs the thief.
Auden and I,
Watching the sky
In my corner
Close to the sea.
We spoke of streets and fogs and loves,
And how once (a long time ago)
We were held safe as a hand in a white kid glove.
And how the night encroaches.
And how the light reproaches.
And how the whisky helps
Auden and I.
And so with the whisky and rhyme,
The crows and ticks of time,
The slippers and light,
The coming of night,
And the smell of kippers for tea.
Auden and me.
Auden and I.
Clink crystal to the sky.
And how my feet are cloven hooves
Dressed inside my six league boots,
Travel broadens every mind,
Life a pageant made of mime,
Not every pavement is smeared with grime,
The clocks are keepers of our time,
And spirit is stronger than barley wine.
The conversation winds and rewinds.
W.H. Auden and I
Making truth of lie,
As the evening gold goes by.
Emptying the bottle together,
And contemplating never.
This man of letters and paper,
Bound in fog and mist,
Wit as sharp as a piercing rapier,
Speaks to me as I gently get pissed.
My good friend Auden and I.

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