Your footfall on the roof tiles is no more
than the skittering of starlings, jackdaws
pecking at lichen. What are you doing up there
among pincushions of moss, in the night air?
I reach for you wanting to lift you up
cradle you as you let the hammer drop,
moonlight shimmering where the clout nails scatter.
Your fingers slip into my letter-box grip
and words pass between us, but it hardly matters.
We move closer dancing an antique two-step
palm to damp palm; excuses gather
on my lips even before my feet trip
on your hem. Smiling, you open wide
your angel wings, sweep me up in a wash of Chagall red.
Stephen Boyce’s Desire Lines – “intelligent, sophisticated, formally assured…” is published by Arrowhead Press.