| Lately I’ve become such a postcard lover
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| Especially of the ones I get from you
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| And if, these days, they don’t come quite so often
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| They charm me more than ever when they do
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| I picture you beside a sunny harbour
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| Waiting for a boat to come to shore
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| Your finger lingering on a postcard spinner
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| In the doorway of a tacky tourist store
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| Or whiling away those warm enchanted evenings
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| Writing in the corner of some café
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| Those careless collections of words and feelings
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| You happened to feel like sending me that day
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| I save every card, although it gets hard
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| To keep some order amongst those random souvenirs
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| It amazes me some, the way we’ve become
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| Such postcard lovers, divided by the oceans
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| And the years
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| Have you found yourself some wonderful companion
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| And all the happiness that heaven allows
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| Or are you homesick for that grey and drizzly nation
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| As you walk home amidst the evening crowds
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| The postcards I send to you from my own travels
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| Can hardly match the ones you send to me
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| But at least I give you news of what I’m doing
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| And open my heart to you occasionally
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| Looking back on all the cards you’ve written
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| From every far-flung corner beneath the sun
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| They say so little of the life you’re really leading
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| So little of the person you’ve become
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| But they still bear the traces of all the special places
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| We’ve kept deep within our hopes and in our fears
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| It amazes me some, the way we’ve become
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| Such postcard lovers, divided by the oceans and the years |