The Salt Of Roncesvalles Poem by Gordon R Menzies

Holding hands in the dark theatre
Young, passionate hand, like birds
with the streetcars rumbling past
loosing us from the sticky floor
brief freedoms soon relinquished
the roots of us entangling there
salt on our fingertips and lips, the
scent of popcorn and foreign films
between sudden heated kisses, deep
we read their stories playing out
not understanding the languages
reading our way to the big burst
of saxophone and frank piano
their stories mirroring our own
a tragedy waiting for us both, and
I, your unknowing Roland, always
in the rearguard, looking backward
passing through looming mountains
with the natives waiting, showering
us with resentful impediments, but
we never knew our dark audience
never saw our names in the credits
never knew who read our lines
ours was a low budget film
creative shorts, memories falling
discards to the cutting room floor
I'm on my hands and knees now
looking for you in black and white
finding stills of you there, smiling
lit with the innocence of our youth