In passing

The first sight of dry patchwork rolling out beneath us

or unfamiliar words murmured at zinc bar counters;

peeling skin on my back like an unfolding map

or yellow acres of sunflowers facing up to the sky;

sporadic glimpses of a slow-moving river 

through slits set into the curves of a staircase;

terracotta pigeons on terracotta tiles

or icons glinting through incense and gloom;

a late tram rattling through lamplit suburbs

or an early plane flying over low city rooftops;

those spiralling conversations lasting all night

or the plangent musk of newly poured wine;

the passing last whistle of a passing last train –

those days we needed nobody’s leave to remain.

31 Jan 2020