Memory re-enters from its separate life
enjoying that hot afternoon in Barcelona
or the walk in Ards Forest last January.
The trick is to slip into the fold
that’s there in its own present: tell yourself
they’re just a couple, in a corner
of looking, sometimes smiling, often
silent, and they’re growing smaller,
dimmer, making their way without
you to cool off in the air-conditioned
gallery, roll, hot-footed in the inflatable
bubble tent; see them come through
the ancient Scots Pines, identifying bark;
see one always be the one to reach for
the other’s hand as they emerge on to
the empty, white beach, you crouched
in the low dunes, watching the couple,
unremembering what they’re saying,
the easy, soft speaking of inattention,
the dailiness of trust and triumph,
complete, open and expanding,
while you turn away, follow the blue
arrow-trail back to the rental car, reversing
out of the spot, out of all the gazes you ever
shared, back to the strong handshake, the first
hello, the setting eyes, before the gaze came back
your future overgrown in its stare.