Meralda Street Poem by jim hogg

A blaze that burned so blithe and high outlined Meralda street.
Once famous for her daring, she was never indiscreet,
was never less than caring; she was shelter from the rain,
where both the broke and buckled found a harbour for their pain.

And I was welcome there awhile upon another life;
some would be godless, would be scribe, allergic to the times.
We dined on vague pretentiousness above our secret seas;
I didn't ever mean to but I left you on your knees.

And left myself regretful all that Winterlong of course,
and when I saw your thighs again where drums beat evermore,
I ate my tongue, I filled my eyes and nevermore forgot,
and drove into the myths of you through mists forgetting brought.

Our channel shore plays tricks on hearts and tangled us anew.
You crossed the plains, you climbed the hills, you tunnelled and you flew
out over no man's land until you saw just who I was,
and had to clear your throat though you were quite clear on the cause.

I took your arm and all at once, the flood began to flow:
no stately stream bound for the sea; more child of letting go.
And I was in the gallery with one hand on the wheel,
where all the guys were tuned in to your fetching eightsome reel.

You said you didn't care and showed us all just what you meant:
a nuclear display and much imagination spent
on someone else's tinder, on your crossed aperitif -
some nodded at the ceiling in an ecstacy of grief.

And later in the street as you revealed what I'd concealed,
I pictured us beneath a plane beside an English field -
so far outstripped in innocence those hidden pastel hues
I eagerly competed in: your lingerie of views;

those openings all closing down; those clips and frills that surged
beneath a standard cover to your reef of gushing urge
that opened up your world to mine before we fell in fear,
from muddied waters into waters even more unclear.

I stitched that reckless future closed and bade so much adieu:
no one-way ticket, no through road, no short cut home to you;
a dead end street where sentiment inclines to writing wrongs.
You told me once in code I had to quit those simple songs,

to quit the common highway or be lonely in your town,
but lately the no entries have been sent to hunt me down.
You soon were into property but slow to swallow whole
The thrusting ideology of well sprung horny goats

who had you rounded up and tethered to the greasy pole
but he was right and I was wrong according to my notes;
and long awaited legacies and settlement of hands,
they left you shorn of everything but love on shifting sands.

For some the flames are rising still along Meralda street
whose dangling rigging tempts my inner eye to meet and greet
so many aching images and credit overdrawn,
but all that's left is surface now; the heart and soul are gone.