Caught in his own reflection, he can’t move:
a perfect beauty holds him. From somewhere
nearby she vainly calls him, unaware
he’s out of earshot now, and out of love.
Close to the edge he senses others who’ve
been here before him, willing him to dare
to lean to touch that strange-familiar hair,
to kiss that mouth, to prove and to approve.
At six she walks back home across the green,
her inbox empty, ten unanswered calls,
each one dropped like a stone into the night.
She texts him - where r u - then catches sight
of her own face reflected in the screen:
a white narcissus as the darkness falls.