WEEDS |
L’Atalante Where three rivers meet we enter the water, feel the flow pull our limbs. Still in the trees there is birdsong the evening light forgives. I watch your shadow as you sleep, go out in the intense dawn that you may know me in the sun for the time that I am gone. We come together, gently shudder, your fingers clutch an ear of wheat. Thoughts are thorns, their points turned inward, what has fallen from me lies at my feet. You say sorrel, I hear sorrow, hear your sadness heal, but now you are alone. The one with words draws the one without, a wraith is beautiful but has no tongue. My last gift was ‘Pere Jules’ angled melodeon, a box of keys that belonged on or in the river. Yesterday I went home and swam in the Medwin. I saw your face gaze back at me under the water. |
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