Thursday, 4 March 2010


He looks through the window at the passing country,
at the hill in the distance where they last met,
its trees like lichen, purple and orange and emerald.

A screech owl flaps mechanically in the valley, stops short and swoops.

He thinks of another time, the first time, at her flat,
wishing he could rewrite it like a scene in one of his stories,
and that narrative could carry him to this parallel place:

She does not drink their bottle of wine the night before...
He brings food...
He does not doubt her, nor has reason to...
She doesn't doubt him...

He types into his phone and when he stops
the road ahead is a tunnel through the night.

In front of the hill a screech owl flaps mechanically, stops short and swoops.

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