Still Those Conversations

 

Faraway it seems

and yet all around and close;

time like snow has fallen on your memory.

Those conversations sluicing

through an afternoon

in a snug in an old pub;

dna spirals of cigarette smoke,

window-light trapped in the coils

and your voice

with its oak-timber grain,

stained over time,

cured in porter and smoke.

Faraway it seems,

but still in amber light,

still lifting from the floor boards.