Our eyes are drawn to the blue horizon,
the shimmering dot of the evening star.
We lose ourselves in the dance
of the moon, the darkening sky, the stray cat,
the pipistrelle whispering its winging,
the slugs who slither to lick our toes.
And the whole world is indigo.
I don't know how close you are, how far.
Our sadness chases us across the threshold
and there's nothing else to do but slip
between cotton and lose ourselves again
in the smoke of the blown candle. Your hands,
like no-one else's, the ring around the blue
of your eyes lift all the sighs out of me -
like the memory of something beautiful:
the moon, how close you are, how far.
From Brando's Hat No 1 (Spring 1998)