Waving

In a tragi-comedy of errors I mistook the finale for a renaissance 

not realising you were drowning, – on land, home in bed, hours later

Now another couple, who managed to stay alive, are on the bus in Scotland
a trip to the distillery I hear them say, to drink whiskey

Ours was a last chance saloon, something to tether us both to a sense of hope, but the desperation of poets cannot wait until a next season, until a visa, until a train service resumes, and now your wanderings have become a disappearance

Your mother beats her head, throwing milk against the doorways, chattering at the jinns in the red tent that has hovered for decades now

and we all wait to see your name flying in that sky