(For 3, see FB 13/10/16)
In the grey space
tumble inchoate ten thousand cups
of tea we’ll never
brew each other, tangles
of washing never to mix
In twin-tub or automatic.
On the white sands
of western shores remain
of our unshod footmarks. Unfleshed,
embraces we might have known
in clean white sheets beside a window
open to the ancient wave-song.
In every pub, tables
wait vainly for our set-down glasses;
rushing roads will never know our journey
into the country of our longing.