A colleague walks up a stairway
aisled with people eating ginger-cake
with white cups of ginger beer in their hands.
The photocopier churning out copies.

Luna was our dog so I write songs
for her. That first morning you met me,
that blue and silver can I sank
was a philtre to get me through the day.
I walked last night to a place I’d never

envisaged. You haven’t been there.
That space after three hours’ walk, past
a small lea, over dales, dells, hills
the tiniest of runnings, a creak
in the Earth.
I was a Kate, abroad
without you. The moon spotlit no one,
indiscriminate as a tyre beside any road, flowers roped to a tree.

This, though; seeing her
climb the stair – them with their
hands of fizz, cheer –
I wouldn’t change this us.

She goes up. I’ll go along
until, not feeling the pull home,
the air empty of charge,
I elect to go home anyway.
Where Luna can feed
and make a bed of my arms,
your dark green coat beneath us both.