Bella Vista! Panorama! Vue Panoramique!
Any other country would have sign-posted
the kind of places we found by chance
or instinct, and were always hopeful
(despite the lack of signs) of finding again.
We’d measure kilometres to the nearest town,
write it on the map, circle it, make notes,
as though we didn’t doubt we’d be driving
along that evergreen road, through those hills,
or walking to that stumbled-upon viewpoint
again one day. So when I open those old maps,
in the vastness I sometimes stumble upon
a 4.7km in your neat hand, a ‘P’ circled, an arrow.
But even as your pen hovered over the map,
‘P’ stood not for where to park, but for the Past,
and the arrow only poignant, not practical.
This way back to something unrepeatable!
This way back to that moment we stood united,
the evening so still we heard the hills breathing;
that moment of looking towards the glitter,
the spangled end of land we hadn’t known
would be ending! Oh! The exclamation marks
pouring out of our mouths!