At the end of the road the shops burn blue
and topple down in hollow
finger-pink, ear-pink shells.
Five traffic lights and a post box later
I am already sick for grim February daylight
and the trivial touch
of your hand on my arm.
The meltwater sunset is too sing-song,
too lavender, too fierce. I’ll keep
to artificial light and morning rain,
saying all the usual things and guessing
at how much you know.
Probably everything.
It’s only me that’s slow, waking up the same again,
missing the old grey clouds in this orange glare.
Comments
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Hm, I like this, especially the last two-and-a-half stanzas.
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