The flower that grew under Holburn Station
where we had once laid great plans of love,
grew taller in the summer months, when we
drank to excess and I felt your fingers
against my instep – heady and laughing,
falling always towards the endless
days of sunlight, when we grew in joy.
Now the flower under Holburn Station
have thrived without my care, unwatered,
unseen, and I have not breathed
your skin in many days, when instead
I have grieved the shrinking days of
my youth – when will you take me back
to drink at the bar by Holburn
Station? When will I be young again.