Tumbling out of the high Grand Circle, down Waterloo Bridge, arm linking arm. Theatre lights reflecting purple, leaching water-ink to the river's calm. The Thames' cold flow, a deep orchestra pit, dark as the wings. Your hand in my palm. Blind hopes of a first London visit set a great fire in your dazzling eyes. I watch, father-like, revelling in it, but know the flames will fade soon and die. Even now I notice you tire, attention drifting, as a gull on the tide. Back to the hotel, twin beds conspire a first separation, a slight chink in the tabs. You dream other cities and new desires.