HOMING

The geese quarter the rain-shaken sky,
their wings clapping a message.

In the bus-shelter rain pearls your skin,
soaks through the seams of my mac.

We know to run at the same moment.

Clouds shift, watery sun dries your face.
The winter skeins converge, calling.

We are less intimate in bright light:

me drifting across shop windows,
you striding away, disengaged.

Sometimes I lose you in crowds
but if I stand still you always find me.

Alexis Evans