A F Harrold

Atlanticism (for TT)

I have no direct way of measuring the distance
across the Atlantic: my reference books are shut
and the shelf they’re on is feet away; and, frankly,
I’m tired of finding out figures. I’m quickly bored.

And while I do know that this side and that side
are sat on deep plates of rock that drift on whirls
of semi-fluid mantle (meaning the ocean is either
shrinking or growing the gap between us) I’ve not

done the research which would tell me which it is.
However, it’s unlikely, even if each minute draws
us closer together, that we’ll be meeting as a result
of natural causes this year. When the sun steps

into my study, whiting the wall and discomfiting
the computer’s screen, I know its pale reflection
glances down at you asleep. And when those beams
that caught me first-hand finally directly light

your face – touch your neck, your hair – I’ll be spun
already off into the afternoon, always ahead of you
and unable to toss the future back for you to catch:
no hints to help you through this day to come.