They have agreed to wait beside the tree
that grows at her street’s end. As twilight bids
him gather up his things, he hastily
scribbles the last lines of a message’s false leads
to throw their parents off their trail. And she
stops bustling around a garden that still needs
her care; her heartbeats tick unsteadily,
each nudging her to hurry. She concedes,
and waves an arm casually in the air –
their time becomes a rosary – he prays
and then the night retreats into its lair.
With time as cloak, under the light they flee;
next morning finds them across the sea of haze,
a country distant, calmly having tea.