Your Other Country

Love, this is your other country
in the middle of its summer:
a rusted siding or a spur
is choked with rampant willowherb;
round a front door, sparrows disturb
body armour of large ivy leaves
as they flutter under cottage eaves
at dusk; hereabouts, B and Bs
have windows with 'No Vacancies',
and evening shadows stretch us on
speckled brick, or paving stone.

Along the walls, the old defences,
practically stepping in my own footsteps,
we were grazed by light that says
more about us than corner shops
...