January 2012
1 post
...and I couldn't forget
Waking,
the valley crusted with frost,
sun slicing the shadowed grass,
deep sky streaked
with vapour trails
curdling memories, left on the saucer
what do you do with three
pure days? trees are on the ridge,
squinting in the haze of the sun,
mistletoe clotting the twiggy arms
fogged behind
dirty train windows.
The last night in Bath,
she comes through the Pulteney
sluice gate arches,
a...