December, West Sussex

Night’s endlessness taps at the mind,
my jet lag a constant drip down the windows.
Because I am here for a month, a girl returned
to her mother, I let myself go soft
in all the ways that matter most. 
Rain, every day. Green, more places
than not. The hacking cough my grandfather
holds in his chest like a promise
to be fulfilled. No frost yet. 
Summer’s petals persist outside the patio doors.
The last time I saw Alice her hair was long.
A possible decade? No. Impossible. 
In The Swan Inn, we take the corner seats
like we used to as teenagers 
with new pink licenses in hand.
Tinsel across the ceiling beams and paper chains
above the bar. An exercise in nostalgia.
This week, clearing a draw of long forgotten items, 
a photo of her slid from between the pages of a book.
I remembered the day well: eighteen, we cycled
along the river, lay our bikes on their sides
in the long grass beside a decrepit railway bridge
and jumped in. We were both 
sick for days after, something in the water.
Somehow, the memory is better for its imperfections.
Winter in England is like this too.
The days of rain sharp relief against 
the sunrise (when it comes). And–and–
summer’s mud now changed to winter’s mud,
midafternoon sunsets. And–and–what I never appreciated 
was the lushness, was the gentleness of the hills, 
was the echoing corners of pubs, was my life
here until it wasn’t. Longest night of the year
perched on the eaves. So quiet, as my body 
adjusts and returns to her time zone.