Left Unsaid

by John Stocks

It was nothing to speak of
In the wider scheme of things
The chill, the open wounds and lies
The bitter desolation in her eyes.

He would stretch the truth a little
And then weave
A deft romantic web
A tapestry of dreams.

She’d toss her red hair and decide
To check the pulse of her restless life
With sudden eddies of urgent travel
First to Paris and then to Marrakech
Writing letters that she would fail to post

In England he, bewildered and confused,
Would walk the restless streets to midnight
Searching for some other muse.