After Hours Poem by Ian Keenan

While they talk
I drink,
Thinking of you few
Who have kept a place
Should I call,
Who fear as I do
The coming of dawn
Cold and alone.

And in particular
You - who that afternoon
Stood excited at my door,
Shaking the web of my dream;
Who made love such as to
Put a smile to suffering,
And whom time swept away
Too soon.

Now, in the ash of evening,
With dawn shuffling at my back,
My solitary ache is for you,
The wind stirring dust
In a dead fire,
Burning.