Our Day at the Pump House

 

Won’t we remember our day at the pump house;

I played jangly old piano, you danced in sequins;

a few people came, a few more seemed to leave;

the trees were what trees should be in warm sunlight,

cast shadows dark enough for their leaves to be richest green

and the old buildings, with their stories peeling, stood there

like it was old news, and it was to them, but lives are short.

And won’t we remember you lay prone on the grass for hours;

it wasn’t the best of days and still, one day, it will be the best of days;

our day in the grounds of the old spa, the warm sun;

and I playing jangly old piano; you dancing in sequins.