Song for Lost Olivia

and the silent song of the singers with no strings

and the snow coming in sideways against the trees

and sleepless children waiting for what Santa brings

and tired stoned hitch-hikers surfing H.G.V.s

looking for somewhere to go and get there soon

and far far away, the long lonely sea

drawing in the rivers, following the moon

and the beasts below, and the beasts above, every fish and flee

and old precious buildings sinking into the mud

and the puddles that soak the new suede shoes

and the hungry builders eating baked beans and baked spud

and the newsagent waiting to hear the latest news

and the night sky and the blue light

and the taste of wine and the grass and the dew

and lips stained purple and the voices soft and slight

and the lights of the town and me -

          we all miss you

 

 

and the paint on the houses and the window frames

and the girls on the corner, smoking cigarettes

and the owls howling through the midnight games

and the men in the cafés placing bets

and the sad tears pouring from the black-suited mourners

and the rats squealing in the squalor beneath

and the bus drivers turning sharp corners

and the fighter looking in the gutter for his teeth

and way out of town, passed the houses, passed the hordes

foxes hanging around, gobbling up toads

and the rich esquires, up on horses, holding swords

and the peasants moving on, carrying their loads

and the battered coast, falling cliffs

and hikers hiking to the edge for the view

and pious Sunday walkers on the grass, telling myths

and the ladybirds in the trees and me -

          we all miss you

 

and twenty-two footballers in the park shouting names

and the Friday drinkers getting loose, drinking fast

and the hundred juggling hippies throwing twirling flames

and old bald men lying still, thinking of the past

and wasted ruined old film stars holding champagne flutes

hanging on their stalls, clutching bills, big cigars

and the ladies of the night, sipping gin in shiny boots

and the black shirts of the workers in the smoky crowded bars

and the wind greeting the trees on top of the hill

and the satellites dancing in endless vacuous space

and wide-eyed teens in the forest gobbling pills

and the sweating runners training for a race

and the lights left on in the tower blocks

and the empty spaces where a forest once grew

and the crabs nestling away for the night in the rocks

and every second there ever was and me -

          we all miss you

 

and the books at an angle on the library shelves

and the fingers all tangled at the old people's ward

and the mystic witch-doctors praying for elves

and the soldiers retreating, maimed and gored

and the jackets earning dust at the charity shop

and the children at the gates, tying their laces

and the maids walking slow with brooms and mops

and the dancing angel with fifteen faces

and the cars in the mud, stuck and sorry

and the elephants in the plains, and the kings

floating through the crowd in a hurry

and the birds near the water with static wings

and the aching in the hearts and the chests

and the hundred million men in hats in the queue

and the lovers on the balconies looking west

and love and loss and tears and laughter and time and me -

          we all miss you.