Poem by the Dutch writer Peter Swanborn

Walk

 Outside, she says, yes I’d like that, a

little walk and then partake of something,

cappuccino and croquettes, first though

the brambles, are they already black?

After a hundred metres of shuffling and leaning

along the familiar river and a bank full of

unnameable flowers, anxiously:

You know where we are, don’t you?

Way back, from bench to bench, till

breath once more, all thought of

brambles and croquettes long evaporated.

Here is the door, the lift, the passage, inside

at last, coat off and then the question: You know,

I’d really like to go out for a bit.