We met on that railway station

Whose long platforms

Were fringed with tall palm trees

That dwarfed the passing trains

You had engineered our meeting

Knowing that I was travelling that day

I was not sure at first whether you loved me

Or whether you loved my poetry

Or were in love with my image

Loose shirt

Scruffy jeans

Sandals

A French poet from the South

A romantic image I suppose

But here is a secret Diane

I hate myself

I have always hated myself

I avoid mirrors at all costs

It is because of my sad eyes

My incredibly sad green eyes

That have visited both

Heaven and Hell

Without celebrating rest

We will meet at this railway station

Again and again and again

You will be wearing your sea blue dress

With your hair loose without jewels

And pretend to be hopelessly lost

Grey eyes on the verge of tears

Dry crocodile tears my ingenue

These are our repetitions

My Love

These are our repetitions