We fly up hills and across sprouting fields,
forwards ten years and back a few months,
all the while staying still and linking hands.
The roads are curved, never straight,
always interlocking at some distant point.
How many times have we been in this direction
and haven’t noticed?
I see us in a cottage
with a workshop made for inventing
Mathematical solutions and puzzle pieces
poured into a teapot with pages from a writer’s notebook
and left to brew.
The extracts merge together wonderfully,
a full flavour
of the years we’ve experienced in a single cup.