In the south,
the day unravels over the ridges.
The city kindles below.
Beneath the burning clouds,
one final gleam clings
to the rim of the world.
On some evenings, a currawong remains
on the highest branch,
a minute weight of ash
in the immensity of pink.
On others,
the glass sweats
into the lines of your hand.
The bourbon gathers
a little of the sunset,
amber denser than the sky.
The dark cleft returns
between two summits.
From the right, the bare tree reaches
towards the paling west.
Before dusk has settled,
one lamp pierces
the valley's shadow.
In the north,
boxes are piling up
before the glass doors.
I push them back just far enough
to keep the tallest rose stem in view,
the palm fronds turned by the wind
to their silver undersides.
Farther away, the lighthouses of Doëlan
raise their beams in turn
above the harbour.
Sometimes, on the low wall,
my Cristal R. glows,
gold against the stone—
the one you call
my princess drink.
Across the screen:
every shade of blue-black and orange above you,
my wheelbarrow among the roses,
bourbon cupped in your hand,
champagne bubbles caught at my lips,
the same currawong,
then both coastal beacons.
At dawn you waited
for the first lamp
to open far in the valley.
I stepped back
until the second lighthouse
entered the frame.
Since then, your horizon ends
with a margin of sky on the right.
In mine, the first roses enter
a little in from the left.
Before folding down
the flaps of the final box,
I scroll once more
through our photographs.
Between your ridges and my lighthouses,
at the centre of the frame,
an unmade bed—
your blue hills at the head,
my harbour flashes at the foot.