You’re the patron saint of elsewhere,
jet-lagged and drinking apple juice,
eying, from the sixth-floor window,
a kidney-shaped swimming pool
the very shade of Hockney blue.
 
I know the left-hand view of life,
I think, and it’s as if I have, of late,
forgotten something in the night –
I wake alone and freezing,
still keeping to my side.
 
Each evening tidal night rolls in
and the atmosphere is granted
a depth of field by satellites,
the hammock moon, aircraft
sinking into Heathrow.
 
Above the light pollution,
among the drift of stars tonight
there might be other traffic –
migrations of heron and crane,
their spectral skeins convergent
 
symbols, arrows, weather systems,
white flotillas bearing steadily
towards their summer feeding.
A million flapping sheets!
Who knows how they know?
 
The aids to navigation might be
memory and landmarks,
or the brightest constellations.
Perhaps some iron in the blood
detects magnetic north.
 
I wish one carried you some token,
some Post-it note or ticket,
some particular to document
this instant of self-pity –
His Orphic Loneliness, with Dog.
 
Advances? None miraculous,
though the deadness of the house
will mean your coming home
may seem an anti-climax
somehow, and a trespass.