Beside the water,

torch-lit in wide places,

the muddy track fades

and ash and oak are ragged

paper props,

before, beside, behind.

 

The thaw bleeds out

over marsh and moor,

swept away back east

with lines of fields

pockmarked

and played out.

 

My own earth is in the box

where

the heart smokes

and is painted on the floor,

where dogs rush to me and breathe

my blood, lick my skin,

now cold as leaves.