Waking up from sleep to write this. Heavy-lidded, head full of fog still. Writing with my eyes almost closed, thinking this is a half-remembered dream. Thinking of maybe going back to bed to find you there.

I left this morning
Peter Bland

I left this morning saying ‘I love you’
as if setting out for some unknown country
instead of the corner shop. I wanted
you to be sure, in case
this time – out of, say, 10,000 departures
I never made it back: although
after 50 years together, 2 countries,
3 children, and several former journeys
that would put this one to shame
you’d think there’d be no need to pause
on my own doorstep, suddenly afraid
of the distance between us, of your absolute beauty,
of the growing aloneness when I clicked the latch.