Landings
From our UK edition
On our anniversary, you drag the sofa-bed into the old conservatory. The January moon swells to cliché and under a ten-tog duvet we shiver. Frost plays havoc with the view. Years slip, sheets cool, the roof weeps and timber withers in its frame. We are unhinged, the window slides, the stars keep their distance, and we, still lovers of the moon, cling to landings, wipe the rime. A mist of words mixes up the messages between us. You step outside to clear the glass, your uncertain face fills the pane and I see man and marriage eclipse and pass.