We Might Never Speak Again

A Poem

Until your email arrived, it hadn’t crossed my mind
we might never speak again. I’m sorry for your loss too.
A further surprise. Who’d have thought any of the four
of us would have survived long enough to see another
one depart. Did you believe in destiny or fate?
I had you as a happenstance or serendipitous type.
Whichever, it’s strange that you should bring up the National
Theatre, right? Or is that the thing, you think, unites us? 

We were so full of ourselves back then, inflated
with naivety’s confidence. That we had the balls to busk
my five minute plays in front of the National Theatre,
as if we were in the company of those inside the bunker.
After V had gone, I decided to clear out the suitcase
of us. All the things hoarded across the years. In amongst
the receipts, ticket stubs and Polaroids, I found an envelope,
addressed to me, flourished in an unfamiliar script.

Inside, a hand-typed letter from none other than Sir Peter
Hall. Did I tell you I made up a flyer and sent it to him 
before we performed, pleading for him to watch us,  to 
impart some of his most sage like advice. The letter
was paralysing. Unanswered. Asking to meet the aspiring writer
and his talented muse to discuss their futures, the yearned
for debuts, that stormy, humid evening, mid-May when reality
and fantasies aligned, quickly parting for everyone else’s sake.

Photos. National Theatre by Denys Lasdun. South Bank. London. 2025 Nikon z8