B Road

A mark on the map where
the road ends, the square
line a line of breath out
the place where the trees and the
driveway started, laughter, the
dog barking, and tea - lights
shining out in unison through
navy and stars

the line in the sand where
no word was said, where
sands of time ran out
through the glass, rough grains
on my fingers

drawing the line where
it hurts and the heart divides
the map has names but no words
the road ends where it
subsides into silence and the

birds sing, it is flat this thing:
printed paper and colour
but I lived it there and I
know the contour of treeline
and road, the sound of the 

gate as it swings on its hinges
the smell of woodsmoke
and the sharp purple edge of
the hills at dusk

the line stops where there is
no place, only vacancy
and stasis in a moment
that came and went
and took all with it

the space left, empty, hollow,

like a tree still standing
with no insides.  I trace the
road there in my palm: the life-
line here since I began, since

you bore me -
the line I still have
even though you've gone.
Roads mean something, and
someone.  This is mine.

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