Before I arrive, I begin to walk.
Early morning. The steps above Rosairedamp
earth held into place by iron pins,
white beads of water on the harbour’s crane,
a milk churn cooling on the farmyard stone.
Where were we? Up over the island’s spine,
smell of the pines on a hot dusty track,
travelling as she did, turning her backcurled up in bed,
away all afternoon, facing the wall, better to concentrate.
She swings on a gate opening to a path, empty.
Also the heat, also the dust.
Before I leave, I follow, as I must.