We were traversing the etched-out landscape of Hampstead Heath,
In the way that only old friends can;
Weathered skins, shielding yet knowing.
Maps, outdated in their story, and still showing the way.

We were talking of men and matters of love,
Delving back into patterns well-versed, as if new.
‘You always end up…’ she said of me,
In what, I guess, felt a potent and acid pitch.

It was a sweeping statement, yes,
And by now we had topped the hill, overlooking the city.
My eyes pricked rather,
And the ashen ground blurred into the Shard and the Heron Tower.

The early Spring branches rose, poker-like
Into the February sky.
I wanted to rise in defense,
But my voice felt lost.

My voice felt caught in a huge broom,
Like it was being swept up with the cinders
Of all the burnt-out words
That either prove or disprove love.

The glass slipper,
Or the worn-out shoe,
It’s all the same.
And yet, love only knows…

It was in the leathery discomfort of that day,
That my soul quivered, like a wild pony
Which in days past would have plodded this land,
And was broken in.

Only the bridled horse, after all,
Can carry the prince…Or, forgetting the prince,
Only with bit to guide the horse’s hooves
Can the messenger deliver her message.

The shoes that fit have been given to us all,
And our task is to stand in them, break them in,
And walk through the veil of where
‘You always end up…’

To find our pattern of the heart etched,
With its acid-and-line, crossing over line, crossing over line,
On the page that sees all of our passing
And says: You are loved. You are loved.