On the Peninsula
Time zones apart,
we stand under the rigging
to catch the soundwaves.
What brought us here has gone:
the circuit flashes of lightning,
the cartwheels of light.
Now the frost-licked fields coalesce,
and there are more stars that we can count,
but the child is looking for more:
for the white search-lights
that gleam and fade and pass.
On the peninsula
the fretwork masts are fading.
Incidentals of sound refract off steel
and the imprint of feet on the frosty grass
lead into a distance that may not exist.
I really don't mind.
There is uncertainty even in the light,
as we stand separate,
each hair glittering.