An Earth Without Countries

Angus stand heavy

with February longing.

I orbit but do not

turn

to meet their gaze.

From there to here,

the length of a finger

tip, the width of the

hollow

at the base of my throat;

your thumb on a pulse

that never was.

Wind whips and whistles

like an old cliché, wailing

truth that lies, stripped and

splayed, withered and

wizened, at the

end

of winter.

And all I know

is all I know.

That sun the colour of

saffron and sand, holds

always, holds only, the

promise

of sea.

That in the years before

you, those long, full, happy

years ahead, when you are

no longer torn, when there

are no longer

boundaries

to be kept or crossed,

there will be moments

(only a few)

when Indigo falls from

the West with a

scent

you almost remember.

But they will pass, these

moments, always pass,

until they cannot be called

Memory,

cannot be called even

Dream;

and you will walk whole

and boundless

and free.

And the blue in your

blood

will be the only,

the extant

trace

of me.