When, in languid times, you reach into your mind

for companions intemperate

to share the fruits of summer succulence,

will my face float into view

and hover (ever the tantalising gadfly)

or will it stay Titanically submerged

under the wet weight of wavers-not-drowners?

In the mythical winters of the sheepish plains,

when even marrow moves slowly in your bones

(a snail’s pace ahead of frozen eternity),

will an episodic warmth sometimes begin,

in some vague cavity holding the memory of my voice?

Or will it’s muffled cadence be insulated, baffled,

by the distancing thickness of space?

While mixing in the ever concentric circles of the Academy,

where deviance is confined to sexual proclivity

and the eccentricities of wine,

will you recall my four-letter irreverence

and unformed sceptic passion

or will these be condemned to that graveyard of logicians,

the Follies of Youth?

Will I still be with you

when I am not before your eyes,

much as I used to slouch into view at celebrations

and moments of importunity?

And will my words remain in your worldly possession,

pin-holed and posted

on the notice board of your life?

I can but say

I damn well better be!