Don’t start with the dawn,
start with the rise of the moon
as it lights snow on mountains, and an audience
of clouds, all so bright your way is lit
without lantern or tired streetlight glow.
Don’t start with your first sight of each other
across a packed dancefloor, heartbeats
matching the bass of the band, start with coming
to conscious wakefulness that first morning
after you marry, you twist your rings, pinch
yourself to make sure you’re not dreaming.
His arm wrapped around your waist, knees
tucked up into the bench of your bent legs,
his breath warming the back of your neck—
thus begins the next thirty, forty, fifty years.
Don’t start with the common car park, wander
through moors and magic, past waterfalls, dreamers
and dusty roads, exposed peat, nested ledges,
past cottages, past memories long and lasting.
Don’t start with the hunt, start with the rescue.