I arrive early afternoon in a blaze 

of wrong-seasoned sun.

The Thames drags its tourists upstream,

all the babies are out, some Italians are lost.

Your seaside home has been re-built

here, cloud-high in concrete,

spliced between lift-chime

and the airless hum of books–

an edit point, pause palace. I find

the door to the door to your door,

close it behind me.

Candles dance an imitation flicker,

your desk is patterned with pockmarks ,

your bed made up in a red check–

an invitation to rest,  yet

I dream deepest standing up.

The gulls are switched on, crying above

waves piped in with no salty tang.

I come to this place. Come to this place.

Everything repeats on a loop.

I’ve brought some fine words for your list

including  sweven, noetic, griskin,

and a small joke that nods 

to our hard Celtic “r’s”.

Something chirrups, another creaks,

you murmur about the dead of your life.

I pace the floorboards with a soft tread,

in the next room you are typing, were typing.

I fashion the bedspread into a shawl 

as the not-night begins to bite.

The sound of whiskey pouring tempts the back 

of my throat, the typewriter ribbon’s gone dry.

Paper is scrunched, the radio switched off,

We speak into this quiet that was made for us. 

It’s growing late, the real river catches 

the evening’s navy robe as it falls. I wonder

how on earth I can leave you now.

O my love keep the day.