Leaving
A last wade through the fields. Home
comes up to your waist. I know this view: the camouflage of woods, a single
plane crawling into evening.
My wife, who doesn’t want to leave, takes
solace in a tub under that red roof, longing for a mutual longing – a cottage
sunk in grey hills, an oceanic window.
The larks are going crazy.
Swallows skim the grass like fish. A train sighs to Oxford, unseen, and
the grass hisses, stay, stay.
from In
Doctor No’s Garden


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