The last time I saw peter there was no time for good-byes
I had never told him, though I never told him lies
He kissed me on the cheek, a gentle kiss and told me
To take care of himself -for him, if not for me
Peter was older and he knew me well
He had a bitter sad side I felt for
He was flying off to France, had had enough of school
I knew my circumstance would take me somewhere soon
I came back from the east my head was turned all around
I was reaching out for friends
But they were nowhere to be found
I wrote Peter a letter in an embarrassed kind of tone
Wondering just what he thought, and wishing he were home
I guess he never got it, but almost every day
I drive by his old house though it’s the longer way
I walked on the beach this morning in the fog all alone
I erased the seabird’s tracks with footprints of my own
I was searching for the feeling of an old but cherished friend
When a pine cone washed ashore, a foreigner on the sand-
It is God’s and it is lovely, and if I knew where you were now
It would give it to you Peter,
It is yours then anyhow
