Letters Home From The Front

Eyes-hidden half lives, wandering slowly,

around another emotional parade

of whole truths and white lies

handshakes and goodbyes

and statements designed not to offend.

And all that we find in the hands of each person

is a letter back home from the front,

that promises meetings, greetings, embraces,

things that will never take place.

For all of our hearts are

thrown up in the air, on a blanket

that shows a year passed.

These voices that still call

and the sounds of the footfall,

are an instruction to go back to the start.

We turn round the dancehall,

and wait for the last call

and with pockets of coins we drift home.