It was in Piccadilly Circus,
She remembered,
At some bar, drinking,
Thinking of Randal,

His long hair, those eyes
That set her on fire,
His talk of Mahler,
His love of Venice,

And how he sent her
A postcard with a painting
By Chagall, she pinned it
To her bed, stared at it

At night and thought of Randal;
And she wrote to him
Every day while he was away,
Dreamed of him

As if he were some prince
Come to rescue her
From her dragons of depression.
It was 1974, she recalled,

Drinking in that bar,
Musing on Randal,
His one solitary kiss,
His fine piano playing

With those thin fingers.
Time has passed, but the memory lingers.