This icon brings back that bath-warm night
In the yard of a Silver Street restaurant
Where, drunk, you tipped the Maltese waiter
With a washed out ten pound note;
Brings back that space,
Where the Catalan sand scratched up
Our star-tanned feet as we watched
the fat sun spill over indigo hills
towards waves that were dark as ink;
That day you stained my leather jacket’s breast
With Boots’ foundation as we posed
For a photograph that would prove too pale
against an oily, gothic wall.
The jacket still bears a heart-shaped mark,
That is the exact hue of your skin, memento
Of your Celtic pallor, your daisy petal cool.
Veronica held her stained cloth
With a hope that I have never held
For my dirty leather coat
that promises no day of glory, no return
of these things from time.