Why does it feel so different here?
Is it the equilibrium of cafés;
watching and welcoming, like your longed-for arms?
Or the cobbled streets under my feet,
shared with purposed, pretty people?
Or the language of love and romance,
calling from every wall and lip?
Or the sense that we’ve been here before,
and nothing matters in the end,
except good food, good company and you;
who could be with me but aren’t,
and let me pretend –
I am no longer English,
and suddenly everyone is friends.
In Brussels for a two day meeting at the EU. Submitted to poetry potluck week 43.