I find myself dreaming about you every night.

The cruelty of finding you as I sit in fat, tattered Middle age

Rather than in the prime of vigour and resplendent in sight

Only makes me want to be in your harbour and landing stage.

In my youth I fantasised about others, but only one turned

My head as much as you, for that was built upon bright lights

And wild excess that all crackled through the night as passion burned

But inevitably we parted, not staying together, try as we might.

Is it age, I am older now so desire, less glamour, more truth,

Or can it be that you were always there biding your time

Winking at me from afar, tempting, and shimmering with words unsaid?

Would it be considered improper, perhaps unseemly or uncouth

For perhaps somethings don’t translate in poetic rhyme.

Dejjem tajjeb li tkun taf iżjed minn ilsien wieħed

Ian D. Hall 2015