Hide and Seek

"You will love again the stranger who was your self."
- Derek Walcott

In a daze of lavender oil and mirtazapine dreams,
I go looking for her. Having wandered
on the wrong side of the River Wear for weeks,
I do not continue on to Prebends Bridge,
instead, turn left, past the old boat house,
now on the 'right' side of the river -
hoping to glimpse her smoking, brooding
yet content, by the benches. But no sign:
I'll have to walk further, retrace my steps,
back, back before all this began.

Back to Yorkshire, October, my woods -
but the fallen tree is faun-less. My hill,
the campfire scar-smudge... No luck.
Back to summer then, France, a dirt track
through a cornfield in St Juire... Not here.
Further still - July, a terracotta bed, where
"I love you" made its debut... No clues.
Abersoch, the windy dunes where she crept
for a sly cigarette - I find her footprints,
discarded butts, darkened sand where she wept.

I'm running now, back, back, back,
Oxford armchairs, Russia, London,
November lurks, deceivingly
non-descript, in my vision, then bang!
I'm heading back into the expanse
of the you-less past... Australia,
the slender gum trees racing to keep up
with the car. Now Saltburn, Sunday school,
Saltaire, skipping ropes, scraped knees,
and our long-felled apple tree...

But I can't find her, she's not here.
Exhausted, defeated, I traipse back
to the present, up the hill to Mary's.
Slump into my still-foreign Fergusson room -
and stop, stunned. She's there, in the mirror,
with a smirk - waiting for my return.
I approach cautiously, press my fingers to the silver,
and pull away an old, familiar skin; slip it on
like a favourite sweater. Now I recognise
my reflection. "Found you," I whisper.