It’s Sunday and he stands underneath the tree

The cloud dark and smooth

But she is not there

He looks like a long- lost puppy

Another girl of the night passes by

She’s had a beating she says

Ignoring the blanket shrouded drizzle

By bus and tram he is at her bedside

Her bruised and battered swollen face knocked

From one world into another

A bunch of soggy flowers lay limp in his hand

He sits and holds her fingers

Still as warm and soft as he remembers

Willing her to wake

Hour upon hour

In the silence he finds a strange nowhere land

Of being there and yet not

Stuck in a loop he feels the peace

Until he falls asleep

He snores and tears the fabric of time

She stirs and wants to say what are

You doing here

His head all sweaty and clammy

A nurse says he wouldn’t leave

He only really wakes on the tram

Her smile imprinted upon his eyes

His face his chest