Woods soak in nightwater
as ringlets of lights burn on hillsides.
The year is retreating:
already branches are baring, stilled
as a hallway with the visitors gone
and a laptop’s keys
rain-ticking in another room.
I cross the carpet, beech, oak and ash,
bramble nicks at the swing of my legs,
to find you, snug as a nut
with the wind’s blue cloth
tucked round your weight.
Twigs lung above me: through your sleep
animals traffic murmurs up from the fields.
First published in The Journal (I’m pretty sure, but can’t find the copy)
See also Tree Cover.
