I walk out of the ticket hall, my mouth

dry, the taste of sleep like cotton on

my tongue. The buildings are the colour

of a field of wheat, the morning haze

is light blue on a corridor of light.

And I have no idea yet what it’s like

to climb up from a metro station to

the windswept plateau of Les Invalides

and find my father sitting with his back

to me, his elbow on the upright handle

of his travel case; no clue I’ll meet

a joyful, mystifying barrier of grief,

a sudden, unexpected urge to pause

and still be on the way to meeting him.