Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

On a humid morning
in the neat Swiss village
of St Livres I come to
Le Fontaine des Amoureux,
a stone trough as long
as a man and deep enough
to drown several. It is dated
eighteen seventy something,
the last digit effaced. I tilt
my head to avoid a hanging
basket of what’s pink and
flowering in effusion. I cup
my hands below the beak
of the spout and, as I wash
my face, I say words for you;
imagine, at Le Fontaine
des Amoureux. Then
I cool my hands and wrists
with words for both
our children. The thoughts
are hopes I dress as prayers,
to give them shape and to
free me for the road ahead.