Saturday, 22 October 2016

Old Carts

The needle in your brain turns about
to the south where is

The river
what river, any at all and like pins in the sky they flit
and steel your super-vision

cuts them sky to ground
         moving the surface
of the taught river, then slack, then taught

to have met him, that took you through
the frosty clear dark, to the carts

each strange query reflects in us
an innate sense of care. I do believe that

and that I love you so much even now
tearing like a pin in the air to south
as you stretch north right back

to the garden of my childhood to the street
river of my current uncertainty
and yours, certain futures

cut out of the sky lying back to cart
frost cut the sky through smog

to make us speak.

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