Blow-in

The first time I saw you was in the bookstore

You had been reading O’Faolain and wanted one more

I spoke not for fear I should sound like a bore

And our eyes met for only a second

 

The next time I saw you was in Moorland Street

I picked up the umbrella, which lay at your feet

We entered a bistro with cushioned pine seats

And talked for the rest of the morning

 

The third time I saw you was down on the strand

With a jaunty red beret and a shell in your hand

I kneeled down and I wrote your name in the sand

And we didn’t go home till the evening

 

I saw you so often as the summer raced by

Walking out on the days when the weather was dry

We looked at each other, straight in the eye

And said that we would stay together

 

The last time I saw you was two years ago

At the back end of autumn and the first threat of snow

You called me a blow-in and said I should blow

Away like the swallows migrating

 

Since then I have wandered down many a lane

With a bag full of longing and a pocket of pain

This blow-in would happily blow back again

If he thought that there might be a welcome