I was under your spell from the start:
I was young, I was soft,
and you well knew you could turn my head
with your talk about whitewashed courts
and big long sleeps on a duck-down bed
and gloves made out of the skins of fish.
When you sailed away
my goodbyes were the gulls in your wake.
I put up with rows and with blame
from every side; there was a time
when I could number my friends
on the fingers of one hand.
You sailed through life, you came back home,
your boat beached on my bed.
As I covered you all in honey,
I saw your hair had gone grey
and straight;
but in my memory the curls grew on,
twelve coils in the ripening
crop on your head.
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