The Eve watching Flash Gordon together
through gaudy chocolate wrappers
that made no difference to the crackling lunacy

The Eve as a coiled-spring eighteen year old
tumbling hoarse from the pub, through shining cold,
to the timed warmth of home and snuck pastry

The Eve lost to tears as a young man
penniless, heartbroke, falling,
safety-net caught, in hindsight

Tomorrow there will be another trail left,
from pillowcase to clues written in wit and love
that lead to presents I still hold tight