One way bridge, always the sign

of near arrival. Ditch, willow tree,

memory of departure. World ship-sewn,

never reversed. Those first months,

nothing more than difficulty – save that one day

at Eastbourne – wind, your hair, the baby

asleep among the sea-grass.

I lay on the blanket and smoked.

Now things are moving on – it is evening,

not yet five and already you are falling asleep.

I cannot wonder at it. I can recall

picture and environment, paths between the trees.

I can call the dogs we had, in order – Glen, Bruce,

Wagg, Patch. The white cat who never earned her keep.

All those day I came home, walking up over the creek.