I catch your voice like the
Buzzing of a bee in summer,
Humming, whispering sweet
Danger, and I freeze,
Almost paralysed with a
Desperate kind of thrill
That eddies through my blood
And tells me that although
All is done, it is not yet forgotten.

I catch your voice, but your
Words don’t touch me.
Instead, only their tone
Lingers, the last true note
Played by an ancient organ
Hanging in the still air
Of an empty church
Bereft of an audience.

It has no beauty
To me it is deadly, like
The dirge of a bomber
Ploughing through the
Clouds on a sunny lazy day.
Just the timbre, the flavour,
Of your voice is enough to
Take me back and imagine
What might have been.

I don’t have to see your face
To feel the sensation, and
The air is giddy with it,
As it ever was, trembling
With the secret between us
That must remain secret.
This is a love that could never be
Ruined by its own potency
And so, there will be no respite
For one such as me.

Rose Staveley-Wadham