What wedge drove in to split us,
What jealous sword or sour heart,
I do not know.
The sweetness of the past,
Our sad parting,
The fact that we are still in love,
But only there, in that land,
The purelands of love,
Where we lived, hand in hand, eye to eye,
But baggage on the carousel claims its owners
And to get through passport control you process stories,
Tell whatever lies you have to tell
And the hotel we thought was booked went bankrupt
And actually, turns out we are mere transients,
Hustling in the lobby with trays of souvenirs.
No longer in that land of love,
No longer in that coloured place,
The boundaries of Loveland shift and bulge, expelling us
To a dull and hellish ground
Where mundane slubs of lava turn to ash
All those crazy best ideas we ever had.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Clive Donovan would be
pleased to hear them.