Brighton in September

We can always see life anew


You told me the tale of a lump in your breast

Your words then fell still, and, well, I guessed the rest.

We sat in the breeze of an autumn cafe

And I told you my tale of a similar day.

A lump “down below” like a ball of white snow

The words fell again, for your eyes said “I know”.

The connection is made and we laugh at those days

It’s a fine thing to feel your remembrance ablaze.

Now our lumps lie in jars for the scientists’ eyes.

And each day is now such a fabulous prize.

We drank not green tea, but hot chocolate sweet

And I noticed a dance of the toes of your feet.

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