Poem

I showed her my hometown

Down from the hills
where the campus stands
conversing with a seen-it-all sky,

from where the students mill about
before trickling into town,
all hubris or privilege still.

Down from the town on a hill,
past coach loads of tourists congregated
between cathedral and

holiday press pack, buying toffee
shipped from anywhere as long as there’s
a picture of Devon on the box—

a quaint village home,
the river Exe,
the moors.

She arrived from beyond the county line
knowing nothing of the quay,
so we walked towards the water

how I imagine Sisyphus would
if relieved of his rock rolling duty;
anxious despite being free.

We drank cocktails before boarding a pedal boat
and I soaked up her reflection,
floating, rudderless.

This stretch of water made magic,
but it would swallow a man
before long, and I watched

her calves become more defined
until they cut out holes on the horizon,
like young trees at dusk,

as she walked back up the hill
and away from me. But all that followed
was worth it to remember

that day spent on Exeter Quay,
when love smelled of diesel
and tasted like Long Island Iced Tea.

Carly Lightfoot
Exeter, UK

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