Old Tapes

The tapes are ragged.

I listen to them morning and night.

They are my shacharit, my evensong 

"I will be there"

You sing, the hiss of time

Mocking us over Lethe.

You sing from the other bank.

It’s been six months 

England are playing Panama 

In another world we go to the John Baird, sit sideways

You tell me you’ll love me forever if England win

And England win,

And death shall have no dominion

Apart from -

The nape of your neck bent over the guitar

The curve of your top lip when you listen to old songs

The buck of your teeth as you laugh at compliments 

The search of your eyes as you —

The thing I most miss

Is your voice,

Now covered by moss 

And hiss.