The thing about us,
you once whispered,
along with love and freckles,
is that we wish the same landscapes.
Hanging dusty out of the train window
we’re looking for the same swimming spot,
arriving independently on a hill side
we’d make camp in the same situation.
When we met I suppose we recognised suddenly our selves,
admired beautiful shades of green and blue,
saw eye-to-eye on the relative merits of continents.
Knew how to finish one another’s expeditions.
The next day
I cried like an island exile
who pacing early as usual
spies rigging down in the bay.
Clara, will you take this man?
It’s time to slip anchor
Where shall we go?
8 May 2004