Trinity Hospital

There was a gunboat on the river
when you led me to your new favourite spot:
a home for retired sailors;
squat, white, stuccoed,
with a golden bell.

It could have been a lost Greek chapel,
a monument to light,
designed to remind the old boys
of their leave on Ionic shores
among tobacco and fruit trees.

Just after rain,
sunlight stood between us
like a whitewashed wall.
You were lit skin, gilt
and honey, dressed in olive.

No paper trail connects us.
No procedure of law
would tell you where to stand
in your sleek black mourning dress
if I die

but as you turned towards me
the golden bell rang to recognise
that I, being of sound mind,
will be delivered through orange groves
to you, the white church of my days.