The Space Between

Ben Philipps 18 January 2019
Image Credit: Eric Wustenhagen


It seems strange to have reached inevitability.

Behind the window, something of sunshine on concrete:

August in Soho, and the sky

In my memory like a muslin of white wine and steam.

To relive is to meet again: self-aware,

Drinking coffee, on guard and showing off

To climb the soft red stairs once more,

Quietly, as you please, a white hall with three closed doors.



Really, the wind across a car park is all I remember.

That, and tripping redhead steps, the bright glistening

Cold of the North Sea between us;

Your mother watching from the beach.

I thought of her grey hair and your new magazine.



And now I have grown into and out of myself.

Beyond me, half-sensed and broad, blank Europe waits,

Grown restless and profound in expectation.