I found a picture of you pressed between dull leaves,
A painting from my window across brick-red eaves.
Grey roof tiles glossy with rain-wet sheen,
A look of drab urbanity that deceives.
The view from my brother’s window was of woods and fields.
A world of birdsong, endless summers and day-long make-believes.
Your far-off landscape still permeates my sleep,
Gilding the dream that my subconscious weaves.
There is no return to my exiled homeland.
Time and distance have been unwitting thieves.
You have been gone seven months, twenty-two years.
Yet the very core of me still grieves.
There is no prejudice in my affection for you. Nor pride.
Only my love for that which memory never leaves.
