Wednesday, 29 October 2014

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 16


The Bell

It is a language of remembered forms,
the marsh dawn lemon on emerald
and the day waiting to be named.
 

I have woven the shape of the sound
from stork tracks in tidal silt
and vertical brightness scribbled with windows,
along a path wide enough for the wind only,
and still I hear you, across the shift of thorns
and wild pear, an expectancy.

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