Over There

If you look out of your window
you will see snow on the banks of the Lagan.
Though I am 400 miles from you
(as the crow flies)
I know this.
I also know that you will be reluctantly waking to the smell
of rich dark Guatemalan coffee,
And that your square toes will touch a bedroom floor littered with
mothy clothes and geographical surveys.
I know that you will stretch and yawn your way through the doorway,
passing a magnolia wall
with an accidental map of Africa sculpted out of mould
and a damp wooden sill,
(beautiful in dawn light)
holding a blue glass paper weight
that your mother gave you before she died.
I know that the only sounds you will hear
will be the faint splash of impatient cars on the busy streets below
and the warm hum of electricity from your prized computer.
I also know that you will wander into your kitchen naked
and look out at the river
and it will greet you with splendour,
no matter the time or season.

At some point
you will think of me
and your calloused musician's fingers
will tap out a mobile message.
Which will arrive on my bedside table,
having travelled 400 miles
(as the crow flies)
in less than a second
and I will reach out from under my duvet of dreams

to the cock-crowing love
and the wonder of technology.

(March 2007)