I wrote to you about the rings of mist
that gather low, at evening, in the fields
behind my house. And when I walk to meet
the woods – its creaks and foot-worn crannies –
the mist moves with me too. I barely know
my town. My parents married in the church
and we never went back. I know which path
will lead me to the lake and that’s enough.
You wrote to me ‘the mist on Malvern Hills
are clouds that clump atop the peaks. One day,
my love, we’ll ride our bikes to Clive’s Fruit Farm,
and watch the evening drift across the town.’
Our letters build a space only for us;
is it too soon for me to call you home?