I could stand on the mountain's tip,
Snow-winds dancing their socks off
At eight hundred kilometres a minute
Frost on all the outer trim
Of whatever winterkit is de rigueur
These days in that aeolian pitch
Of seamless grit from outer space,
And if my body were wrapped mainly in yours,
You'd recognise
Among the wind-raked snowcaps
This same surprise skin-flame, amps flowing
In directions I hadn't known about before
Towards those bitten back sighs
You make, like you'd been alone for years.
There'd be a heatwave on Everest
Plus that weird relief
Of bodies becoming each other's journey's end
Or seeing bees swarm in your own apple trees
And a helical slipstream of woodpigeons bend
In a clear domestic fashion
Down the mountain, home.
From Rembrandt Would Have Loved You, which will be published by Chatto and Windus in April.