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Outside a tearoom on the West Coast, just beyond the tidal rangeCloses the pages round a bookmark, takes the glasses from her eyesA distraction, as a synapse triggers some past recollectionIn every classroom and every lecture, there's a dozen vacant eyesFrom the dual carriageways to the Chekhov plays there's wandering mindsRecollections of the boys they kissed and the girls they let slipAt every bus stop in the county and the station ticket hallsSaturday markets in the villages and the trailers for the filmsEveryone's cursed by reflectionsReplaying the same old scenesAnd too wrapped up in that to notice what's happeningBack at the teashop, revelations, like an old detective filmJust like a signpost or a guidebook if the lightning strikes againRecollections are a treasure trove for a new directionOut in the high street, from the concrete blocks to the rivers in the parkOut in the discos and the pop shows and the students with guitarsI'd never really know what to say to youIf not for the hours spent dissecting what I should have once said to someone else From Letras Mania