. . . nevertheless

you’ve reached sixty

your move, cancer 

    

 click to enlarge 

afterwards

washes hands in

the glossy darkness

of the rain barrel

 

waiting for

the bus home

watch a leaf bump

against your boot

 

she asks the museum guide: what’s the lemon about ?

 

after the poets

have wafted past

start shoving autumn

into sacks

   

a decent likeness

my reflection

in the gallery window

 

not recognising

the witches

because it was dark

(& they were witches)

   

not birdsong but the squeak of a barrow’s wheel

 

robin / a lost word (reappears, gone again)

 

and suddenly you are someone from the flatlands staring at peaks

 

opens curtains wipes condensation from the window it’s misty outside