A sound pushed like paper under a door
was all that you left of yourself for me,
unmaking the shape of us. While you saw your way,
the leafless window promised me nothing
in its changing tone-songs, Easter
after Easter already written, imagined
through the fogged silence of woodland,
its ally in a conspiracy of short days.
And I've had to live with that prophecy,
body of a solitary alive
in a rain that has once too often slushed
memory seeking a dusk poem
in the prosaic glare of grey light.
All this remains in the knowledge of winds
that still blow now and then over the place
making me a ghost there. In the morning
hereafter there's a dress on a bed
and a naked silhouette in white light
by the window as if it happened yesterday
when the snow's stillness brought us together,
the iambics of you walking away
evoking the last sounds we made of love.
Helen Thomas in Epping Forest by Seán Street | Poetry Reed Diffuser Set
$20.00Price
