When we spoke last night
I heard your voice
so jolly and yawny,
and I felt our distance
come into sleep,

alongside the images
forming as the softness,
hands touching between sorries
given and retracted,

the sense of falling and rising,
in landscapes of imagination,
with vistas of pub theatres,
little lanes of writing by number,

weightless without paper,
that want so much to be
in the house of your dreams,
on a river and walled garden,
across the town, with a view

over hostas in a communal garden,
with pathways to hold secrets,
passages like fingers,
where a wish for freedom
and happiness to find you,

the reader of my poems,
about fear and healing,
in the compost for stories
with hopes to be written.