You came and picked me up at two a.m.
without me asking. What was in your mind?
That danger might be walking home with me
this night more than the other hundred times?

I’ve often told you how I love the air
at two a.m. when it’s so clear and clean
the nightbirds’ warnings not to interfere
seem to include me in their reach of care.

Or how the moon slides her shy way
behind a wisp of cloud and sends a flood
of ash-grey light, a one-night only show
that’s just for me, played on the shining road.

You enter, centre stage, and change the scene.
We talk a little. But not of air or moon.

Anne Stewart