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.