Sole guide and friend when I am
lost on country lanes. It’s night
and the loss is sometimes straightforward,
the strands of complication get plaited in
colouring warmth in where none was scheduled.
I imagine torches on scenes of small disasters.
Someone we love is always the shape of the missing
the gap unfilled
a careful step on the cracks in the pavement –
it never hurt anyone
to be doubly sure but
who’s to say superstition hasn’t cursed the world?
There can’t be one heart for hatred
and one for love. We only have one…
and it stains easily.