The Madonna and the Boy by Paul Crompton

I knew who you were
before we met,
as I watched your red dress
swirl round your knee,
dyed hair running wild.
Sat across a room of strangers,
I was handcuffed to the past,
strung-out from being lost
in muddy backwater.
You confident and strong
wearing the city like a badge
with a halo of ghosts
wrapped around your words.

And I remember those mornings,
after nights listening to the radio,
when we never got dressed
reading the dictionary
eating day old croissants.
Neither speaking of love or the future,
guess we both knew
you wouldn’t suit a white frock
besides, we’d both been there before.

And now the folk singer’s songs
bring back your memory,
I see you’re happy now
least that’s what Facebook says,
a new man in your bed
but your beauty never let you down
when loneliness came.
And who might have known
In those early days
I would have to defend my heart
by lying to it,
or the truth by saying
it never really mattered, that much.

Paul has been published on various indie websites and produces a chapbook of Brighton based poets. He regularly performs at spoken word events. His poetry  flits between the subtle to the caustic, from inward mediations to wry observations.