The boat was meant to be a way to appreciate the distance.

I ate beignet / a pot noodle / green olives with a cocktail stick

sitting on the deck in a storm. What else was there to do

in this place of endless wind and Abba medleys, sequined crew

dancing in a circle on stage.

On land, the hotel cancelled because wildfires were broiling

their walls. My husband said it was embarrassing / funny / strange

to be so oblivious while the world burned and I thought

there will be no one to save us when the fire

eats us all alive in the car.

Gas station staff pressed their hands into the counter,

watching a yellow tower of smoke spin closer. Mountains

so black, they’d lost all depth. Rocks emerged

like rescue squads laden with toxic dust, a reminder

we’d escaped for all this dopamine / splendour / devastation.

Sunflowers dumbly turned their heads to the source —

will the scars be wiser than the wounds? When the hills

stop smelling acrid, will they smell of meadow grass again,

waving like the lone woman on El Pintal beach as the ferry passes,

looking for connection and only one / everyone / no-one waves back.

I see last year’s blackened trunks bursting with fresh green

leaves and feel only gladness / disbelief / despair. Oh, for the optimism

of pampas grass hitched in the bonnets of our cars, throwing

themselves at verges on routes from the port, thinking

in their seedy way — if not there, then here / here / here.