On our anniversary, you drag the sofa-bed
  into the old conservatory. The January moon
    swells to cliché and under a ten-tog duvet
  we shiver. Frost plays havoc with the view.
Years slip, sheets cool, the roof weeps and timber withers
  in its frame. We are unhinged, the window slides,
    the stars keep their distance, and we, still lovers
 of the moon, cling to landings, wipe the rime.
A mist of words mixes up the messages
  between us. You step outside to clear the glass,
    your uncertain face fills the pane and I see
  man and marriage eclipse and pass.
I know how Lovell must have felt on Odyssey:
        the moon quite touchable, pulling steadily away.