this sill pretending
swinging on a garden gate
as if it is ending
auras fade and then dim
we should be mending
not letting chances become slim
if we never talk
we’ll be cooled by the sear air
when we take romantic walks
this silly denial
as we step outside
i know the past can feel like bile
that you can barely hide
but there seems no sense
at looking ourselves with lies
James Garratt – May 2008
The Boy Behind The Glasses. Poetry and Writing 