that August in Livingston,
we meant just me
and the small dog tracing
the bends in the river
into the far edge of afternoon
one of us thinking of rolling
ourselves into the landscape
for keeps just for the peace,
the other enthralled
by sudden bursts of magpies
all these years after,
I never did find the right shade
to fade into and can’t shake
the sense of going the wrong
way against the river now
as if home had quietly
washed itself downstream
and settled on a sandbar –
lopsided and forsaken
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 