Wire

It's a long way round
the barbed wire of your talk,
a treacherous walk
to try to find an entrance.

Once, away from the wire,
we holidayed restlessly,
Europe blooming all about us,
talking of love.

The compound's closed, wire-tight.
It's evening and
your voice is search-light bright.
It's cold. I want to hold you

but the wire's in the way
and heavy-booted words
scuff the dust, stand,
threatening to attention.

You speak of a new life
and all you have learnt,
of the past.
Once, repentant,

you said you felt privately
guilty. As the search-light
swings through darkness
your words escort me off.