These Thoughts Are Blighted By Fears

My chemistry is unchanged by the wrack
of oestrogen and progesterone it lacks, still
essentially the same as when it wolf-whistled
you in the crowd at Portsea’s Nepean Hotel,
mid-1968 – and still warmed by the flame.

The old hotel’s gone for all the wrong
reasons but The Portsea remains;
it was in a crowded bar there I first knew
I truly loved you, more than a soldier’s
pannier – where I watched, dreamlike,

the delicate girl of my wildest imaginings
talking, animated and infinitely beautiful
with classmates, some of whom died,
breaking hearts in her hands and offering
them back bound in great gentleness.

Mine was there too. The first twinge was regret,
replaced by a strangeness I never let command,
a jealousy which I could not reconcile nor, in all
these years, understand. Today I am affected
by an alienation deep in emotional lament.

Are we estranged? I think I am the same young
man imbued with self-righteous vigour, ready to
stride into battle again, fearless as you and our love
is within me. But strangeness abides as I
cannot feel your presence beside me.

There is a newness in you I do not countenance
with ease, a distancing that was never more than
a fleeting touch or reassuring heartbeat away.
These thoughts are blighted by fears, is it I
who am to blame?
© I.D. Carswell 2006