Mike Parker
a perfect mist
even here we’re allowed beauty
even now in my troubles
a perfect mist
on the hated South
this full right hand pocket
of England
justifying the jacket
we’ve got our open Prison
and tomato greenhouses
both slightly less than full misery
less than Elba or Naples
the cold curls and the brushed haze
cleans
because
behind the mist
sits light
it will clear and true hills smile lines again
walkers were never lost beyond shouting
in its shared flask of geography
its steam
one real tragedy could bundle the mist
into a litter bin
it’s a form of water
lost from the sea
and like wanderers seems
tanned with mysteries
and then too ordinary...
… in its brief wet walk-by
passing as me the day
The Downs clay rock
the whole round foot
of our ground looking for
its dry shoe.
Page(s) 109
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