Wasting time

Please tell me why you've visited this poem. More of you visit this one than any other, and I'm intrigued. You can comment here or email me at malcolmwilson01@hotmail.com.


Like Petrarch, I could write about a deer
encountered, loved and lost again,
whine like Wyatt or, like Shakespeare
build a clever argument, complain
of love’s unfairness, remain uncertain,
end with a coupled question mark in rhyme.
But how can fourteen lines contain
my anger, or explain my cliff-top climb
in search of you, describe the time
we kissed and clung together
twenty years ago, and how I’m
always looking out for you, forever
raking over everything we did and said?
A waste of time: we loved; you’re dead.