These Are The Days
We find ourselves huddled on a bench,
by the Thames, opposite Big Ben -
his bright, white face mirrored,
not only in the river, but in the moon,
pastelled onto a cloud at his side.
Sam launches, full-speed ahead,
into a half-rehearsed speech.
(Philosophy and his new-found Christianity.)
It's still strange; having him, not me, bearing
his heart on his leather jacket sleeve.
Once finished, he turns expectantly.
And that's when you stir, Shadow,
having been beside me the whole time.
(My thoughts on his ramblings
displayed in your bemused expression.)
You raise a hand to shush me -
one cool finger to my lips. Begging:
"Don't tell him I escaped the first downfall -
been following you all summer..."
(That is the secret of a secret.)
I say nothing, only join him;
taking in the Westminster skyline -
just wishing I felt his peace,
safe in the knowledge that
these are the days of our lives.
He's ready for the journey to pastures new
- wants the change. I don't, can't, feel
the same. I'm clinging to the familiar
with both hands, fingers curling
over the edge - precipice,
as if I were facing my own death.
But you're still here, Shadow.
I remember you once told me:
"When one door closes,
another one opens."
And, sitting there, on that bench
by the Thames... I smile, knowing
my reply is the same now as it was then:
"This particular door will
always be left ajar..."