Before you came things were just what they were: the road precisely a road, the horizon fixed, the limit of what could be seen, a glass of wine no more than a glass of wine.

With you the world took on the spectrum radiating from my heart: your eyes gold as they open to me, slate the colour that falls each time I lose all hope.

With your advent roses burst into flame: you were the artist of dried-up leaves, sorceress who flicked her wrist to change dust into soot. You lacquered the night black.

As for the sky, the road, the cup of wine: one was my tear-drenched shirt, the other an aching nerve, the third a mirror that never reflected the same thing.

Now you are here again - stay with me. This time things will fall into place; the road can be the road, the sky nothing but the sky; the glass of wine, as it should be, the glass of wine.