Apart from my nephew, one of my most treasured possessions is a book of poetry by Robert Graves. It was given to me by someone I loved. A lifetime ago. Like the book, I imagine that now he’s a bit battered and threadbare at the edges. As am I. I found the book at the bottom of a box of keepsakes, and it put me in contemplative mood. I feel like sharing this poem as a reminder that the past is always another country.
The Pact by Robert Graves
The identity of opposites had linked us
In our impossible pact of only love
Which, being a man, I honoured to excess
but you, being woman, quietly disregarded –
though loving me no less –
Pier Point 