A new, proud, tall Christmas tree
poking out of a broken-down
green-striped Citroën 2CV
(just like Gail drove in nursery).
It’s evening, low tide, the new pair
aimlessly a-walking, no talking,
in tidal-dredged, dregged mud:
maybe I’ll love her, maybe I’ll love,
nerves blurred, no words stir—
silent pace, clouds laced deep
purple, pining for their black sleep;
pre-Christmas, festive, as babes,
shimmering delicate, riverside dusk.