Dew Point

57° 24' 34'' N, 5° 28' 33'' W

by Zoë Green

I always thought that if you
were twenty years younger
and I as many older – well, anyway
there was salt on the air
and little skiffles of foam upon the loch;
you wore streaks of egg on your pullover.
Never seen you scarecrow before.
Your spine was ammonite,
your face overexposed, blotched,
like something dug up long ago.

Not long now, you said,
fragile as dandelion breath
when I met you on the road,
your voice a winter sky;
I demurred; and gave you a hug
as brisk as an official stamping a document
and filed you away, walked back to the car
as if it did not matter –
to make you feel that I felt that you
would live forever.

That was last October.
Today the loch lies flat, black
as the dilated pupil of a deadening eye.