I crept along the silent streets, their familiarity painful and accusing.
Even in this darkness, the sick worm of cowardice drives me to the shadows.
I know each brick, each door, each window pane,
We huddled in these doorways, to touch, to kiss, and to escape the rain.
The filthy soot-smeared streetlights search me out, to interrogate me.
What are you doing here? Why have you come back? What do you want?
I know these pavements, each and every crack,
We trod them in our search for joy; caressed, as we walked back.
I struggle on, the sodden wind invading me; I bow my head in useless shame.
The pregnant sky gives birth; it's cold, sharp progeny mock and sneer at me.
I know these skies, beneath them I have laughed, and loved, and cried.
Below this sullen blanket my love flourished; then sickened, till it died.
So, why have I returned to this place of ghosts and memories?
Where love was both freely and honestly given, but dishonestly butchered.
I know this place; it haunts me, each night and every day,
But now I' m here, and feel it's hate, i slowly creep away.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
