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The Map
I stand with a treasure map,
no X to mark the spot.
A scattering of clues,
roadmaps of endless dots.
Your name is on an envelope,
surely that’s proof enough?
But it’s faded, invisible ink,
a hollow past calling my bluff.
I search drawers for clothing
and scour shelves for books.
Trace desks for fingerprints,
scroll through snapshots for looks
between us, you and me -
that one I swear you took by the lake.
Rain clouds forming behind my head
like dirty Papier-mâché, a grey fake.
I stand with the treasure map,
aged in spilt argument coffees and tea.
Scribbles of forests and mountains,
a cabin, a cliff edge. Pebble beach and sea.
I stand with this treasure map
searching for a hint,
that you were here and I was loved:
for just a shimmer of gold, the faintest glint.
Copyright ©
Thomas Harrison
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