by Noel Harrington
and i returned to the fields and river of our walks at dawn,
to hear of you lost in a heroin haze.
your glorious eyes dulled and your apple cheeks shrivelled,
your confident body wasted.
(mesmeric riversong still singing the joy of our youth,
the promise of our limitless freedom,
the beauty of our faces and the fun of
the emotional intensity of the uncharted teenage years,
tears springing with the miracle of moments).
and i look to the river.
the floating, flickering reeds
are your strands of Ophelia hair.
must our lives be as wasted as Hamlet’s?