Not the time I held time in my hand; not the dome
of the church under which I’ve hardly ventured;
not standing on the hundred steps dropping my phone,
watching the fragments take flight; not the unfed
donkey in the field we passed, although that
comes close; not the chick from the holly squeaking
in between your dog’s teeth, still alive; not the cat
slinking in and out of the mess of shadows down in
the car park, nor the leaking network of pipes
working their way out of our knackered building;
not the slush of change in my hand for the bus,
though I need it just as much; not the perfect song
you sing on the way to the beach in the car.
No. Not any of that. But we’re getting closer.



Kevin Graham