Over June Lane

By Kevin Ryan

Over June Lane

Miranda,
As you move between the rocks,
Gold as the sun your uncut locks,
And turn in its light,
The long night coming from over the sky,
Oh I never, in all my days,
Knew a gaze that rivalled yours.

No I never, though I went so far,
Met the girl that you are
In any teeming town.

Miranda,
You and I in a tiny shop,
On a corner in a street
When England was sunny,
And the morning late,
And free from the gate of a child-filled school
You waited that I take you
Hand-led to the hill.

Only you, Miranda
And a setting of the sun,
Only you by the shadowy rock
You lay your hand upon,
The water twisting in the wood,
The high dark waiting to come,
When you dreamt in the grass and your voice was mute
And all the safe daylight gone.

Only you, Miranda,
And a wordless voice of love,
On leaves above a heedless town,
Ever golder your hair
In a high moon lifting.

Only you Miranda,
And a dusk upon the hill,
And what I say in certain suns,
On fields a long-gone girl had run in,
Is like a longing for a morning,
Gardens wet we met and ran in,
With the see-through river ringing
In the dark of a silent wood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Oct 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479722402

Kevin Ryan

Kevin Ryan is the author of Pocket Books popular Star Trek trilogy Errand of Vengeance, as well as Star Trek: The Next Generation—Requiem (with Michael Jan Friedman). He has also written the screenplay for the novel Eleven Hours and the Star Trek: Voyager episode “Resistance,” as well as two Roswell novels for Simon Pulse and thirteen various comic books published by DC Comics.

Book preview

Carolyn In Kensington

C arolyn,

A myriad of motives made you muse on me,

Made you miss your mother and your classy coastal roots

In your little London room, away from the childhood sea.

The pavements were peopled in Knightsbridge,

The mackintoshed posh in the rain,

And the park was steadily emptied

To soon be filled again.

And I was poor and lonely

When among your thoughts I wove,

And all the streets from Soho

To the mucky Thames I roved.

And did it bother you much I didn’t talk as such

And confide the boyish things,

That some girls fear but love to hear

In the calm the evening brings?

Yet I sat on a bus and thought of us

And what could possibly be,

Like live in sin, or be wed instead

And age beside the sea.

Did it bother you too, that I sang to you

The slow and tragic airs,

In the dark afternoons of your Kensington rooms

At the top of the white stone stairs?

Did it bother you long that though every song

Seemed written for you alone,

I never vowed or pledged a thing

You could ever call your own?

O Carolyn, listen in the busy city stir,

When the recent born take the streets by storm

As young as you once were.

You’ll recall us talking with the silly wisdom of kids,

Awake and still and in from the chill

When the others took to their beds.

Carolyn, they’re carolling

In your snow-bound town in December,

And you may be there with grey in your hair

And no cause to ever remember

What I still know, that years ago

We talked in a room

In Olympia.

Marseille

I must go