He rang to say he was almost home,
walking down a street of bright bars
and rumbling nightclubs,
the rain slow and warm.
As she answered
his sluggish heart
came back to life.
She was in the woods, as far north
as he was south, she waded through a stream
edged with ice and scrambled
up the frozen bank as he said
“You’re so far away,”
“I’m right here,” she answered.
He walked up the metal steps
to his flat above the shops
rain gone, cold air pressing in.
“Where are you now?” she asked
“Outside the flat” he said, the wind picking up
his words bringing her thoughts back
to shadowy thoughts of the city..
She stood on a bare rock in the moonlight.
He felt her breath against his ear
“Feels like you’re just a step away” he said.
“Feels like I’m there,” she replied.
She walked on the path through frozen grass
and then sat at the table in the cabin.
He opened the door to his flat
and flopped on the old sofa –
both of them silent for an hour
still together.
Paul Bavister's poetry has appeared in Butcher’s Dog, Dark Winter and Dream Catcher.
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