44/ The mists lifted

At the sound of a closing door
I return upstairs
and lean out of an open window.
Below, the river road travels the forest
through a clearing,
and through broken sleep into rain falling.
The mists lifted and I saw a circus horse
and a man kneeling.

We don’t live forever;
time becomes smaller and smaller.
And down from the stage she comes,
singing slightly away from the microphone.
We have a night out, then make our way home.
Sometimes I get taken for a celebrity;
I’m that much of a looker, they think I’m off the TV.
And when I’m down the pub
I know the world she’s after.
She looked at me and I at her,
we laughed again.
As she was leaving,
she looked back in.