We are looking for the station.
Seagulls draw a map above us
in fading light we cannot read by.

You invite three different sets
of directions, four shrugs,
a shaking of the head

then spot a sign
that only leads us back again
to the crowded ring road’s Gordian knot.

I could walk here beside you for ever,
waiting for our destination
to unfold as solid geometry,

signposted, lit from within,
emerging cleanly as we round the corner,
startling in this January twilight.