A nostrum by Wem Edwards

Our thing, this cosy nostalgia.
A dog to its vomit, your nose tells you
smells awful. Sent forward, no stall here –

empty manger of hesitation – nor steeled to a

retreat. The nest endures
but wings signal now to all years
fly home. Years in, still new, it cheers
me acutely. And you, still here.