Parting

Manchester airport, café,
the words to spare - all clichéd.
You keep your silence, I am mute,
But someone plays a magic flute.

And I'm still waiting, yet immune,
for melody to change its tune
for that we've heard in Wales from birds,
to help me find some simple words.

This time no language's simple and plain,
no words that deeply hurt to blame,
no 'see you then' and no 'goodbye',
you turned and left like passing by.

Jet takes you home. Train takes me home
to storm that starts and blows its horn,
to heavy rain that's never long,
with magic flute's bewitching song.