It does not take a lot
To remind me of my stealthy departure
Leaving you for the last time
I drove for fifteen minutes
Through the early morning frosted sunlight
To park up, beside the black water pool
High on Dartmoor’s random terrain
That thought in turn takes me back
To that very same, isolated moorland road
On a snow filled night around Christmas
A reckless decision
To make such a dangerous journey
Where all ahead was a works party, without you
I ask for a replacement cup of coffee
The original was neither black, nor strong
In truth the second cup was little better
A connoisseur may tell you
That the coffee was burnt
I trail off, with those unsure, indecisive words
I hope you might see
This poem is no longer for you, or about you
