At the top of the stairs
 I as for her hand. O.K.
 She gives it to me.
 How her fist fits my palm,
 A bunch of consolation.
 We take our time
 Down the steep carpetway
 As I wish silently
 That the stairs were endless.

Another poem which stands or falls by the strength of its final line… the fact that I’m running it suggests that the former case holds <g>. Indeed, I think it’s quite a successful (if slight) venture - one of those all too rare poems which capture the essence of a moment, of an emotion, so exactly that it makes you think you know precisely what the author felt at the time of composition. Very nice.

— Thomas

Minstrels Links

Adrian Mitchell poems:
Poem #28, “To Whom It May Concern”
Poem #95, “Nostalgia - Now Threepence Off”
Poem #211, “The Oxford Hysteria of English Poetry”
Poem #337, “Jimmy Giuffre Plays ‘The Easy Way’”
Poem #397, “Ancestors”
Poem #623, “Ten Ways to Avoid Lending Your Wheelbarrow to Anybody”