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