when Carrie met Harry

Renoir touched up a drab spot
in his painting, Au Moulin de la Galette,
with a twirling couple -
a man in striped trousers
and a woman in pink

 

the man, was an artist, Solares to his friends
the woman, a ‘model’, was everyone’s friend

 

a hundred years later, reborn as Carrie and Harry,
they had no memory of wild polka Sundays
yet their eyes linked a little too long
whenever they met in a bar or a party

 

Harry intrigued Carrie - occasionally
Harry loved Carrie intensely – but privately

 

at a party throbbing with chiselled energy,
Harry toyed with a double whiskey,
wishing he was home with a dvd

 

Carrie asked, ‘this seat taken?’
Harry, casually, ‘yours if you want it’

 

as they talked through one glass, then another
Carrie felt the stirring of a vague ‘something’
from ‘somewhere’ before -
from some time before
there was a before...

 

and Harry was a part of it

 

‘would you dance, Harry?’

 

Harry was no dancer,
yet if they danced
he could hold her hand,
and feast on fond imaginings -
they danced

 

the wine, the dancing, loosed his tongue,
Harry wanted to say, ‘I love you,’
but his nerves betrayed him,
‘I love… your black velvet dress’

 

the party dwindled into silence,

Carrie reached towards Harry,
shaping her hands as a holy grail

 

Harry mimed ‘taking out’ his heart
and handed it over, reverently

Carrie cupped the token, tenderly
as though it were a wounded bird

 

 

their world had changed without a word

‘come for tea, honey? soon?’

‘I’ll check my diary’

 

a goodnight kiss
two lonely walkers-home
two souls waiting for a call