After dinner, the night summer-bright but dimming,

We sat down to unpick the questions that dangle

From a ripening life.

Sliced them open, made jam for next year’s breakfast.

Lying there on your nightingale floor,

I remembered the time we walked for hours in the rain up to Mirador Britanico,

When they told us that there was nothing to see,

That the fog would not relent.

Now in this apartment, I still hear the whispers:

There is no grand vista, just going and going,

Going and going.