We stand in the gallery
in front of a frame,
my Australian friend and I,
on a day that’s shivering cold,
misty and grey.
The room is warm and welcoming.

Two people wrapped in blankets
sit on the stern of a ship
gazing out at us, from a painting,
gazing back at the land they are leaving behind.

They are emigrants, I say, seeing the title.
Yes, she says, they are going away.
They look so sad, don’t they?
Don’t they look miserable?
They do look very sad, I reply,
but they began an adventure that day.

Over cups of tea and coffee,
as days grow shorter
the phrase repeats and repeats,
we can do that next time.
We’ll come back.
Next time. Next time.

Next time? I ask.
Yes, next time.
Next time this
and next time that,
but we are none so young
as we used to be.

Certainty is an illusion of youth.
The future is only a time beyond now.
The future is always uncertain.

We hope.
Next time,
we hope.