The conversation crossed a curragh
and blundered, ungrammatical, into a
quiet quag. It waited, gasping
for samaritan adrenalin.
Moment passed, as celibate as
letters travelling long oceans of hour
between bleary memories, their inks
congealing on plain pages, sepia
before leaving the nib.
It was a stumble. When you reached
forlornly for your case, you took
a stammer from my mouth, snapped it:
swallowed it like a trouper, too -
and glued me to you.
A tide of echoes washed our parting
promises away: I watched the wake
behind the long cortège of your leaving.
Distance folded you like thin air
in a layer of water; your reflection
hurried mine down tumbled streams
over the rasp of rock, gentle flurries
of fern, and took our glaze of gaze
to a spacious waste of tousled sea:
it lay on a corrugation.
In a soft doldrum, we were waiting
for the next hesitation.