Don’t let me think of green hills and leaves
Or listen to some wrapped up clean sonata
And tell me we can sit in cafes with coffees
And laugh and tell our little histories or jokes
Or sweet lasting silly anecdotes.
I don’t like the thought of dancing in the dark
Of listening to the beat of wild music somewhere
Far off dreaming of someone else who isn’t here.
I don’t think I can sit and sip and speak and
Look at you without this vision stuck behind me
See the sun shining overhead just then cast over.
If I were to follow some road, some straight length
Some footpath over National Trust and oilseed
Through Morocco and Vietnam, the Andes and the Alps,
The cold would get to me, the heat, the noise,
I cannot speak these languages, read these maps.
If I were to step inside a Constable and run rustically
Through oil and brush and water and rushes and sky,
If I were to sit on some wooden chair and look
At you and see all the different colours in your eyes
And all the intonations in your voice and all
Those places you wrap up for me in words.
I’d only find vast empty spaces, a desert, an abyss,
Throwing stones across the universe,
As if it wasn’t meaningless.
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Comments about this poem (Don't by Fleur Jones )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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