After the Gallery
Heading north again, yellow and orange leaves stream past
like dots freed from a Seurat painting.
We pass a plump brown river, the promise of another flood
held under its skin.
A horse in a green coat
rolls in a field; a wash of mist
softens a ridge. Outside Chesterfield
I try to look away from a girl
who studies the Highway Code.
You’re almost old, I reflect
to the tunnel-blacked window.
She glances up and through me,
luminous and assured
as a Leonardo.
A version of this poem first published in Clear Poetry.