73 292
nine poems
73
I’d tasted the stolen fruit
a taste that has never left my side
on this day came her presence – like the fragments from
a dream
My sanctuary a bed of spitting wolves
a sovereign placed in dust –
where a shredded wedding dress hangs
like a crucified shadow on these uncertain shores.
She collected the snails from the road on Frenchay hill
where the rain dragged them into drains
over flowing with damp acorns;
our time on this earth was so short
only those guardians of light forbid our love.