It's dusk and the old electric heater is trying its four bars.
I am thinking, again, of where you are and how I might get through.
The medium was a nonsense of guesswork and guile
and the dreams I had were forced narratives.
I tried writing a letter with my right hand.
After a glass of wine, I used the left to channel your reply
but all that came out were backhanded compliments.
The room is slowly losing its chill. The cat spills herself onto my lap
I wonder if you were happy here,
where we sat as a family in the bowl of the valley,
waking to birds fluting and chipping their native mimicry,
then following the late afternoon arrows of geese
over acres of hard graft and laden fruit trees.
How long do you think it will be until I can sleep?