Our Last Day Copyright © Jackie Carreira 2011

In the middle of the wheat
The wind made a noise like gravel down a pipe,
Covering our steps and sounds of distant engines
With a tin-thin resistance.
Skinny rain spat across a gun-metal sky,
So the skylarks couldn't rise as they might wish
But bounced and pinged like pinballs
In a big, shiny machine.

We sat under the shelter of an English tree,
Where I felt like a foreigner gone far,
While gangs of distant trees were standing
Side-by-side for life without escape,
Having to get on without the comfort of complaint.
You sat, your back on silver bark,
Until I could not see you for the trees,
While I spoke words into the wind
Like paper planes inside a hurricane.

I didn't know the names of all the trees,
But I knew which ones would welcome my embrace.
I didn't know the names of all the trees,
But I loved them just the same.