Your month has just arrived, but you are gone,
the Underground mixed you into its mess,
rush-hour masses sweltering in the heat.
The summer, unexpectedly so sweet,
has swept you here, but also swept you on.
Our journeys in this city’s brash caress
have landmarked me; Westminster bells repeat
your laughter and our shyness growing less.
In this moment, you are my Waterloo:
for Greenwich’s Island Gardens I would trade
my garden island and its supertrees
and happily call this home. I already do.
Outside our windows, both our sunsets fade.
How London hurts, all sunburnt with our bliss.