We were held by a meadow

When we met in the mud,

and the deep green grass

On a yellow damp month.

Nobody had much to say

But you

Climb the hill of the playful mind

In the even medium heat

of steady autumn afternoons

we should meet up tomorrow

we're both doing nothing

i couldn't say what it was that day 

i still can't

I’m holding my breath

For the new Collins to drop

Out of the pasture and into the domestic

Into blue violet and green roomwater

Red for the polygon and sinusoid

soulful swallow 

chirps from the other room

Twiddling thumbs, thinking

Lips or of love or nothing

Knock on my door

Tell me stuff about birds

at the end of the day

the ethics of care

the virtues of play

the father of man

embarrassing him

affectionately.

spit spat long labour

slow heat the full flavour

butter and the guanch,

wailing horns drip loud along

the windows condensation

and alive around the heart

until the night is fully black,

new orleans is finished

and politeness emulsified

in oil and salt and each other.

it matters because you say so

and because it matters.

share a bowl of ramen 

with a community

and think of me

in London

where the abstract blue

along the thoroughfare is glass,

everything is flagship

and everybody's there.

I'll come down to visit you 

and walking in the middle

of where everybody is

the bargain store and bus stop

poundland, pavement

we will walk

Where wetland and moorland meet

Great grey white wingspan 

reed and rush

Cold as the kneedeep

Sharper the inhale

stop in the deep brown

Wait and wade

To hear the heron

Winding mouthward

Pausing under peeling bark

Orange teal and white and wet

like clay.

Part of you is here 

In me, in the meadow

Where we met that day

Waiting for the heron

In the deep green grass

We should meet up tomorrow,

we’re both doing