Behind the summer trees,
The abbey sulked in the distant haze.
Nearer,
A tiny woman he dared not touch
(Not even with voice or eye)
Played cricket in the breeze.
A coward who hid behind sarcastic words.
He dared not speak in vain,
Nor even hint the same.
And even when he talked,
He sacrificed the thought
That remained unsaid, again.
Later,
By the Wharf (which stomped like a liquid troop),
He stared hard into the river
To find, again, his lost chances.
To hear answers only a mute could give.
It reflected back the game he needed to play.
The price he had to pay.
As if that was a beginning.
As if.
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