On our anniversary, you drag the sofa-bed
into the old conservatory. The January moon
swells to cliché and under a ten-tog duvet
we shiver. Frost plays havoc with the view.
Years slip, sheets cool, the roof weeps and timber withers
in its frame. We are unhinged, the window slides,
the stars keep their distance, and we, still lovers
of the moon, cling to landings, wipe the rime.
A mist of words mixes up the messages
between us. You step outside to clear the glass,
your uncertain face fills the pane and I see
man and marriage eclipse and pass.
I know how Lovell must have felt on Odyssey:
the moon quite touchable, pulling steadily away.