BETWEEN

 Between the asphodels and the fresh sea breeze

between the March rain and a sunny spot

of anglers in the river

between the stone bench by my front door

and the fishy stench in the market

between the hut for weathered hunters

and the pub for daydreaming poets

between a snowed bridge and tangerines in the basket

between the wild horses and the train tunnel

between my alleyway and Wall Street

between the summer and the coldest heart

between the landscape and my aquarelle box

between the birds and that sickle moon:

there is just the distance

from your hand to mine.