Like everything you kept it

at a distance. For a long time

 

this was between us. A sharp hill

between towns, a stone caught

 

in your throat. One day you croaked,

said you were going to see her.

 

And I knew it was peeling, the windows

smashed teeth. Its white was gray

 

and green with sore weeds, broken

bottles, burnt plastic, the smell

 

of below the bridge.

There was no light,

 

no possibility of light.

You came back and

 

didn’t say but I saw

your feet puzzled

 

with sand and I knew

what was left.

 

First Published in  Poetry Scotland70, 2011.