Landlover

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Don’t walk with me. I’m sick
Of snowdrops in blue fields
And a boy in a blue parka
Chasing geese. Honkity honk

Go the geese and the boy:
The birds aeroplane into the canal,
Leaving the boy marooned, longing,
Land-loving in his sneakers.

I never did find my sea legs.
Misplaced them that summer we spent in California
Boat-strapped
With the smell of oysters clacking open in the heat.

There is something ridiculous
In the click of your boots on the floor.
You shut the door and tromp into our house
Armoured.

I cannot walk with you
Because you are ridiculous.
I cannot walk without you
Because I am ridiculous

In my egg-shaped glasses,
My cheeks the color of skinless pears.
You tell me I am severe,
With the lifeless part of my hair:

Grey as yarn, the kind no one bothers to knit.
I look the part—yes—academic humanoid
Masquerading as woman.
Alone in our house, I can be anything I like

Til you come loping in
Interloping in your barrel boots
“Go away!” I shout. “No one home!”
Then I remember we’ve shared this house for one and twenty years.

(One year happy, twenty less so.)
The less I see of you the more I worry
That you’ve drifted off,
Lost on your walk in the park.

It happens, you know.
Step through a puddle and you’ve mirror-hurdled through time,
Like a raindrop sucked back into the clouds.
I’m worried time will split and spit you out,

Somewhere ages away from me.
Back when you were a boy in a blue parka,
Interested in geese, in the park,
And totally uninterested in me.

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