Dunedin hills, 7am, 29th July 1978, 
but I’m thinking of France. 
The ground mumbles and moans 
that there are horizons everywhere. 
I picture the things that are outside mine. 
The wind rustles my hair 
like my lover, who is not here. 
In Avignon there are bridges. 
In Avignon they are lighting the fires 
for midsummer, 
and in the caves below 
there is fathomless dark, 
and in the starlit sky 
the one punctuates the other. 
But staring out over the port, 
in the two-tone twilight, 
as yellow yolk 
broken by pink fingers 
drips down 
the green hills, 
I think back and I wish 
we were standing there together, 
so I could run my fingers over your face 
and whisper in your ear 
about how beauty stretches beyond time. 

First published in "Selection" 2018.