When I'm Old I'll Wear Purple

We both agree...to take the bull by the horns;
do our Christmas shopping today.
John Lewis, we agreed;
a civilized kind of store.

We tread our chosen paths;
arrange to meet underneath
the clock at three-thirty.

I was back a few minutes early,
surprisingly enough.

I’d snapped up a few bargains –
one in the audio department;
found exactly what he wanted.
Quadraphonic earphones...

How does that work? We’ve,
all of us, only got the two, ears,
that is.

And then, I spot him – wandering my way;
hovering over the lingerie counter
with that ‘little boy lost’ look
on his face;

reminds me of five thirty a.m.
many a morning; watching
him sleep, recognising
his oneness – his solitary longings
as he murmurs, incoherently...
albeit, in a dream. He edges closer,
oblivious to me...

Still he doesn’t recognise
‘this lady with a purple hat to die for’;
his words, not mine.

And then the penny drops;
he hugs me, squeezes
my hand as if it’s been a lifetime,
an age, since we went our separate ways,
and not a couple of hours ago.

“Hi!” he says, and I can’t help but smile,
as my mind goes back

to that bring-a-bottle bash;
a party – his bedsit, just off
Putney High Street when first we met...

and he was a whiz on the bongos.