Your Timing


After I had boarded the 10.17
to meet you at the pier,
through the window I watched you wave me off.

The arrow fired after you into the green,
you stood beside me
and carefully replaced the shaft.

A javelin tossed over my brother’s house,
before the tip turned earthwards
you tugged at my smock, a passage of writing in your hand.

After cleaning our block,
the sheets pulled tight across our beds,
orange piles of linen lined the halls for days.

14.95 to change a battery,
the watchmaker advising you not to do it yourself,
you slipped the catch with a 20 pence.

Outside the security office having returned your key,
a spider fell from your scarf to the paving;
the cab driver nodded, started the engine.

After baring my soul, that Saturday,
you walked towards me, all well.

Over the bridge and down I lift your suitcase.
You signal my train as it pulls away.