I used to like to lounge around drinking gin & tonic
up in Connecticut, next to the Housatonic
back when everything struck me as ironic.
Now I can barely remember that ancient sonic
boom that lifted me right out of the chronic
despair I once felt. Maybe I need a mnemonic.
The music of our love was majestically symphonic,
its swelling melodies both angelic and demonic,
its simple lyrics heartfelt and laconic.
Yet now all my dreams are strictly Platonic,
and, believe me, I’m not trying to be sardonic
(nor should you accuse me of being histrionic).
With you, in bed, all sleep was embryonic.
The snores so sweet, so gorgeously harmonic.
— Terence Winch
For two other new poems by Mr Winch, click here