I remember leaving your flat in Pimlico,
Stepping out into the silent square;
It was autumn, leaves in the gutter,
A soft pink sun on the blank faces
Of the tall Georgian row.
The fenced park was locked
To those who lacked the key,
So I walked around it,
Dawdling off to Victoria.
The past is not another country
But another person who is you no more,
Evidenced by the slip of time
In which I never saw you again.
- Larry Buttrose
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