Friday, 20 February 2015


It is all potential:
us, beneath this,
a concrete council building,
where a 75 or 77
will growl to a stop
on my first visit
to our future home town.

Unfamiliar shop frontages,
lit for an autumn evening,
are signals I fail to decipher,
flashes along our progress
to your mysterious address.

Walking up and around
the pub where we would drink,
the office where I would work,
we’re arriving outside
the house which, long before that,
(but sooner than we think)
we would come to share.

In your room, on the sill,
are the bowls and vases you’ve made
working the summer in a pottery
and I’m just in the doorway, clay-like, still.

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