“I’ll write,” you said, as I clung to you,
“I won’t forget.”  So I transferred my grip
clinging to that promise as you cheerfully walked off
turning to wave just once
after your passport was checked and stamped.

Months passed. I’d left your promise
in the corner of my room, cobwebbed, dusty
but never forgotten. Then the mailman came:

“This one’s for you,” he says. And so
that’s when Mum found me, clutching a postcard
eyes dry, heart empty; she took it from me
and read, “Wish you were here.”

[6 bends in the road]