Faraway it seems
and yet all around and close;
time like snow has fallen on your memory.
Those conversations sluicing
through an afternoon
in a snug in an old pub;
dna spirals of cigarette smoke,
window-light trapped in the coils
and your voice
with its oak-timber grain,
stained over time,
cured in porter and smoke.
Faraway it seems,
but still in amber light,
still lifting from the floor boards.
