...silver fingers at the windowsill
in the full moon as they leaned out
to breathe the sweet air of the Nimes

for the last time, and the flame
burned down in a dawn agreed upon
for their heart-broken leave taking. And
for their sakes, accept in the moment,

this city with its colours of sky and day--
and which is dear to us and particular--
was not a place to them: merely
the one witty step ahead of hate which

is all that they could keep. Or stay.


e. boland