My love could have been a Thomas

My love could have been a Thomas
From Trinity or from St. John’s
We could have had our choicest fights
By the fire at the Anglesea Arms
My love could have been a cliff at Exmouth
Or grimalkin’s stone third eye
My love could have lain like fog
On the sea at Lady Chapel Isle
My love could have fed me poppies
Drunk my milk and fallen fast
Slept for centuries and awoken
Hugged tight by electric glass
My love could have been upright
Tipper of hats and payer of taxes
Veins as wide as Roman roads
And a fool’s lemony conscience
Boil the blood and pull the rhubarb
Bring the flags down in the suburbs
My love could have loved the land
But my love loves me instead.