LAST NIGHT AT SOMERLEYTON

(to John and James and father Tim)


                       

                        Sitting at a table, old beneath the glasses
                        Of the crowd, we talk about things
                        As they come to mind and find the phrases
                        In which they hang around awhile, begin
                        To lose all importance as the words lose their taste.
                        It's getting very late; we find
                        Last orders called and buy more drinks with haste,
                        Mourning the passing of this final night.

                        The landlord has done good business; we leave at last,
                        Find our way to boats moored outside,
                        Talking loudly with the boys. The night passed,
                        We arrive at Modwena, climb inside.
                        But that is not the end of things; climb out again,
                        And board Sparklet for coffee
                        Till the early hours together with friends
                        Because the dark of sleep is too lonely.

                        Rising in the morning, air cold for going home,
                        They still sleep.  I dress for leaving,
                        Look around standing on the paving stones,
                        Sense it in my throat, the sadness growing.
                        The dishes are washed slowly, I don't rush what time
                        Remains. When they come, talk with James
                        And John, my skipper's sons, and friends of mine,
                        Shake hands with faces that will end as names.

                        Tim Neave

                       1982