We’ve had our argument of thirty years
interrupted; and I’ve still not said everything.
Sitting across from me, at the kitchen table
messy with ashtrays and empty bottles, you’d say,
at 5 a.m. as I’d rise exhausted, ‘That’s right!
Walk out!’ and I’d usually sit down again,
held by your fierce eyes, and our love of storms.
And if I slept for a couple of hours,
in the guest-room with the door locked,
I’d be rushed out of sleep by you bursting in
shouting, ‘And another thing!…’
But now you’ve walked out on me;
and I haven’t said everything.
from Dear Shadows (Fal Publications, 2004) © D M Thomas 2004, used by permission of the author.