Wish you were here. It’s a calm summer’s day
and the dulcamara of memory
is not enough. I confess without you
I know the impoverishment of self
and the Venus de Miol is only stone
So come home. The bed’s too big! Make excuses.
Hint we are agents in an obscure drama
and must go North to climb 2000 feet
up the cliffs of Craig y Llyn to read
some cryptic message on the face of a rock.
Anything! But come home. Then we’ll motor,
just you, just me, through the dominion
of Silurian cornfields, follow the whim
of twisting narrow lanes where hedges
have wild business with roses and clematis.
Or we could saunter to the hunkered blonde
sanddunes and, blessed, mimic the old gods
who enacted the happy way to be holy.
Meanwhile, dear, your husband is so uxorious
absence can’t make Abse’s heart grow fonder.
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