Never Met Poem by Andy Brookes

When dawns rosy fingers creeps cross windows of western coasts
in the cold wet emerald isle, set in its silver sea, night makes his boast.
and when the warm winds of California sweep across the Pacific blue
the cold winds from Siberia over England blew

we sit, in front, each a screen and each board of keys
to tap and tap and tap the words upon the ether's leaves,
and talk each to each in poetic lights though we have never met
with miles of ocean and solid land between is hardened set.
It seems as if I know you and you know I, though we have never met.