An Apology

Sincere apologies, too late I know, for not getting engaged

on the night we’d planned, Christmas Eve 1962. I had the ring

in my pocket, the one we’d bought together that November

from the little jewellers on Whitefriargate in Hull. Remember?

After Midnight Mass, arm-in-arming back to ours,

we linger outside the gates of Seaforth Park. The moon

smiling and expectant. No wind, no people, no cars.

Sheets of ice are nailed to the streets with stars.

The scene is set, two lovers on the silver screen.

A pause, the copy-book kiss. Did angels sing?

This was my moment, the cue to pledge my troth,

to take out the blue, velvet box, and do my stuff.

But marriage was a bridge I feared might be detonated,

And I had this crazy idea that if I didn’t mention it, then you

wouldn’t either. That we’d collude in romantic amnesia.

That life would go on as before. What could be easier?

Christmas passed. Enraged, you blew up. I felt the blast.

We got engaged. It didn’t last.