Waiting in the crescent

of an afternoon,

I return to my latent admiration.

There is so much canny light

the mayflies look miraculous

in concentric swarms over

the murk. A swan’s breast

breaks the water, her feet obscured

by turbid swill. I click my fingers

at a loose dog to scare him

off the shore, and remember

you wry and amazed

on a street corner in Chelsea,

the docklands brick behind you,

a rough catch in your voice

on a too-cold day.

What else is there in love?

I untangle a fishing line,

sweep the dock for dropped hooks.

The dog is already in another

rabbitless thicket,

scouring the ground

in lovesick reverie.