chance meeting with a former muse

chance meeting with a former muse

 

it was more than a year since I saw Oonagh

 

there had been other muses

but Oonagh was my non plus ultra -

still is

 

she was the heart of many stories with

a dozen names in a dozen guises

I wondered if she realised

her place in my life and writing

 

‘Oonagh, I love you,’

 

‘I love you too, but brotherly’

 

we had one date

a Macbeth matinee

she wore a green velvet dress,

and a necklace of Whitby jet

 

I sat beside her, glowing, entranced,

I dared not even hold her hand

 

I wanted too much

she offered too little - 

a one-way ‘love’ 

proving unsustainable

 

I woke from hopelessness

and burned all my letters

too impassioned to post

 

coiling smoke stung my eyes

as I poked the flames, watching

old dreams turn to charcoal, dust

 

Oonagh reduced to a ghost from the past

until I glimpsed her on my bus

 

she saw me,

turned her face away,

 

at the terminus

she looked much smaller,

much older, much frailer,

her face much sadder

than I remember

 

‘hello, Oonagh, you’re looking well’

‘thanks, I got your book you sent’

‘you’re ‘Rita’ in the opener’

‘I figured that, the book’s quite good...’

‘thanks, glad you like it’

‘... it’s a little better than your others’

 

I pondered would a goodbye peck

open old sores or

should I walk away?

 

I reached out a hand -

Oonagh walked away.