I took a bus to the outskirts of the town
I grew up in. It was so flat. The Southern Alps
blared at me like a car radio.
It was drizzling but auspicious.
Five rides and three hours to get seventy kilometres.
But I got dropped at the corner, things
bounding in me like rabbits. And there, there
was Sarah, on the daffodil farm. All that space.
Hours yet of daylight. How well I would live.