Between the wanting and the wishing,
And the fist curling tight,
Is the quenching of the dream.
The cruise ship and the beach parties roll on into the dark,
With the heat and spilled wine,
The laughter with forgotten friends.
Was it in Tenerife?
What was it was had for dinner then?
We should have bought the blue one not the red.
And the stars were the same as ever,
And his hand next to yours,
And the jokes were ones you’d heard before,
So you cast about, among the silk scarves and white doves,
For another dream,
Another windmill flailing useless arms.
The night comes to us all,
Though the string of our bright beads is not enough to light the way,
While in the belly grows the griping fear
That for us there is no pier,
No green light, nor even a red,
Only desires plucked from a catalogue,
To hold beneath the hand,
To hold tight and high, to admire in the sun
And pretend we have not crushed their fragile wings,
And they will never ever fly.