Amsterdam or Rome

for amc

Pour out the wine of astonishment
before this dog of a day settles,

picking burrs from a damp coat.
November. Blackbird sings everything awake,

shaping the forked explosion
of naked trees and gooseflesh;

behind the propagation of streetlamps
mulchy gulleys trickle to the drains

where rivers overflow on soggy hectares.
November is drawing in,

gathering dark, gathering leaves and wind;
the shops gear up for Christmas, gathering it in.

I put my voice to the trumpet of your ear
and cry and cry and cry.

If we had gone to Amsterdam or Rome
and in the dawn beside the water

belled by early clanking streetcars, veiled
in November mist, we stood and kissed

against the parapets and walked and talked
and kissed again while holding hands in bars,

eating white croissants with bitter jam,
bringing down the brickwork with our murmurs

and only passing rumours to our friends
that might be true in tropes or broadly close

to a nice argument we could defend,
there is a then.

There is a then;
it’s following in the heavy footsteps of our friends.

The bright light in the distance pointing out
a point of no return, that’s not the point

of scattering in the wind.
We hold it in.

We hold it in and breathe November air
gathering near our lips to say that we will stay

where we have been alone.
And, will not go to Amsterdam or Rome.

George Roberts (16/11/2003)