First overseas Christmas

In fact, there is no Christmas here. No baubles, no tree.
No threadbare dilemma. The usually shaking streets,
the lush roadsides, twitch like the first morning of a war.
Here, they live as close to death as birth, dare you to spot
the difference, celebrating both with noise and colour, no
silent night. Even the intolerable guests are invited.

It makes me miss you, from a distance, whoever you are.
Boarding a largely empty train this evening, bound for
a range of deserts, physical and personal, I find myself
clutching the place where I’m told my heart is, or should be
anyway. And I lie across the wooden seats of my carriage,
cold in spite of latitude, sink into once-abandoned longings.

Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in print and online publications including Under the Radar, Brittle Star, Dime Show Review, The Interpreter’s House and San Pedro River Review.