I can hardly speak but I will try
On this cold December evening:
my brain falls silent, still
it is the dying of the light
when a ferment of tenses
leads me up many cold-cut cul de sacs.

I linger on a moonlight-figure
palely mirroring the sparkling frost,
she’s gone but never lost.

Suspicious of the silences within
outside is wild, the colour of blood
sin soaks into the sky.
A large barge meanders down the river
on a bright mid-summer morn;
I hear peals of girlish laughter
echoing from both banks.

Passing under metal bridges ladies
quiver under their parasols, men in top hats,
like well-paid actors in a film about rivers,
over balance and fall into the water
one after another as if this was a deliberate
act of mass suicide. Which it so obviously is.

Bodies splash into the sweet scent
of grass newly cut and only
forty-two years old and gloriously confused
she removes her shoes and happily remembers
that wildfires cannnot be bought, or sold.