I wrote this for a woman who seems to be constantly travelling, yet never in one place long enough to spend time in my tent.

The river ran
East to west
It traveled
And I
Stood still.

To the left
Or the right
Lay mountains
And the coming night
In the distance
Some hours walk away
A single figure
Cut the horizon.

I chose
Not to choose
Pitched my tent
Right there beside the stream
Then,
To dream.

In the morning I awoke to
You,
To the sound of your knocking
Outside-
No
I have not got any tea
And you
Didn’t look disappointed
Enough for me
Which is strange
Considering that
We travel together now
Me without tea
And you
Without disappointment.

For six nights
We pitched our tents
Tail to tail
We shared a fire
And meals
And some small round biscuits
-you named them-
the name I cannot recall.

On the seventh day
God rested
And snow fell upon the alpine ridge
Making it harder
To drive our pegs
Into the earth
-that night we pitched only one tent
and I looked into
your eyes as I said
Goodnight
And somewhere
Between falling asleep
And falling in love,
I kissed you.

Somewhere between
Italy and France
Between friendship and desire
On a firm piece of earth
That is forever ours,
The universe in its yew
Held our equation to be true .

The days that followed
With the sun on our backs
And the laughter in your voice
Were a daze of dizzy lightness,
No hunger could catch us
No pack grew too heavy
No walking was too far
As I walked
Floated
Beside you.

At the border
Where three countries joined
Was the essence of our own joining;
I had seen
What lay ahead
Before I had seen the red post-
We did not speak of it
But you were headed for one country
And I was stamped
For the other one
And we parted with
Notions and lies
Of
See you in Vienna
And write me
Phone me
Send me
Something to remind me
Etcetera etcetera
Blah blah.

It has been fourteen
Grueling days
Since we both
Broke our promises
And now
As I sit on the banks
Of this river
Considering the climb
And the coming of night
I notice a lone figure
Approaching
Still hours away
And I choose
Not to choose
Between the mountains
To the east
Or the mountains to the west
I stay as I am
To wait out the night
The river flowing inside me
East to west and
Left to right.

Laurence Cramer