The first time I saw you was in the bookstore
You had been reading O’Faolain and wanted some 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 birds all 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