By Paul Smith
Date: 27 January 1998

Bridge

On a bridge, he would meet her, in Venice. Or Rome.
For the poetry of it, just for a lark.
Late arriving beside her, parapet gazing,
Pretending to look at the lights in the dark.

Speaks her name softly, laughing out loud,
French wine and seafood at a place that he goes,
Suddenly seeing the value of words,
This isn't a stranger, this is someone he knows.