World by Kate Copeland

The trees showed the way, but in the course we couldn’t

find the stairs, followed the canal.

I remember there were day trippers.

I remember you kissed me on the bus.

I always cry when blue-green waves, where Keys,

but you dragged me along the sculpture garden, and I love you.

I remember you drank my fire-smile.

I remember I wore Westwood boots.

We drank rum at the harbour, but I skipped lunch, and fainted

during the birds’ fight.

I can’t remember any King’s day.

I can’t remember why you drink mixers as a man.

Our fortune-costing inn tucked away under a red tower,

steps dark, inviting drips on Sunday eve.

I can’t remember our neighbour.

I can’t remember why the world’s my favourite picture.