Her Hand Over Mine
It’s the small things over the course of a day
Monday 0830. A passenger jet moves behind clouds
weight of industry & cotton wool conjoined
when all I have is the roar of engines
& sweet voices in my head
while a second vessel —
this a long, winding train moving
copper ore from east to west —
toots its horn, sad announcement
of a lonely man taking in the town
before he returns to hours of maize & corn
So the manmade week begins
while closer to home grapes gather
in the shelter of summer leaves
cats move across the terrace
in a hurry to take in the garden &
our growing season continues —
produce that might take us through a week
at world’s end. We live under cover
of the macro but wish we didn’t for
our world is measured in microscopic events
that matter to none but ourselves:
a light left on, a door closed, a kiss over coffee
a short exercise in breathing, a pleasing sound
& a good book read , devoured
We live the intimate moment as the world
clamours at our door & we pray like
the blue angels of the nativity
to the invisible caul we rarely name
ever present as her palm wraps
around the back of my hand
as I imagine the sound of the midnight train
Copyright Simon Heathcote
