Trip to Arran by Maria Sledmere

There are these pictures
which exist on my phone like postage stamps,
each one waiting for its destination.

We took the early morning ferry,
watching behind the silver wake,
its twin possibilities of listening

to our thoughtless words
and a song like wind chimes
sprinkling the things we said

with a certain glister—which I
would remember later, cherish
as a star in the darkness.

I snapped the sun through the hedgerows,
the way the Ailsa Craig
seemed like the sea’s great ghost
of a nipple, rusty as yesterday’s sunset.

There was the way the light flowed out on the water,
a ripple of red hair
bright at the edge of my sight,
catching your face in the glare.

Collecting these pictures
I am struck with the moment, out there
in the hills, when the clouds came down
and you covered me in your jacket
and held my hand
like we were children.


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