Guests mill in slow motion
like extras in a Poliakoff flick.
A clear sky throbs pulsars
which, sparkling, heighten what you feel.
Lantern glow catches glass,
the guests are drinking glitter.
Champagne smoothes re-entry
into a time no one quite got over.
Old characters. Old scripts.
There is a half-lit, forgivable rustiness.
She is here, a red-haired danger
you keep in the corner of your eye
at all times. Some of the girls
are holding their shoes and move
barefoot onto the grass. A few
of the chaps are sitting louche
on the low wall, bow ties undone,
a gang of penguins having a smoke.
Alumni slap backs and share
a common-or-garden joke.
Moon-chill induces a shoal of shawls,
plenty of blazer-lending fools.
Her hoop earrings flicker
in the dancing beams thrown up
by fancy dans among the footlights.
You fiddle with your cufflinks
then move with two glasses,
trusting you won't fluff your lines.
[ Reunion ]
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