Poem By Richard George
Four young men in summer term,
we measured days by alcoholic tides
and long liquid evenings
deepening to night.
Cooler, hipper, or so we thought,
we bestowed our tipsy accolades:
'Weird', 'Bizarre', 'Avant garde'.
God, we fancied ourselves.
And then there was Alison:
she sat with us by default (we
were a better class of rough trade) .
And we just stared in wonder -
with not a girlfriend between us -
at her fine, greyhound features:
'Do you like this music, Alison? '
'Would you like a drink, Alison? '
'Will you go out with me? '
All she ever said, it seemed, was 'No':
but now I close my eyes I
can feel, touch almost
her stillness, silence;
a richer currency.