On New Year’s Day we climb Thorpe Cloud.
You say you can feel your heart beep
in your hands—pulsing in your gloves.
I remember dread that first formed—
cast from thread of piss on a stick.
After twelve tense weeks—with a wand
they divined your heartbeat from my
belly—not a beep—a deep thump.
I watched in case their faces betrayed
things I didn’t want said and dreamed
your shape from clouds on a black screen.
At this point: where sky, moor, mountain, meet
and merge in January light. You are pitched—
your nose and cheeks pinked.
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