Jane Whittle
Winter
Untitled
feeding gold fish
while the old hill’s darker edge
proclaims its morning
black mirrors
swinging in the rowan tree
shooting starsalone upstairs
listening to the winter wind
break and enterwoken by a whiter light
and whispers on the water
falling snow
we walk a sunset path
too steep for shadows
and lose our heads
so much bright air
between the old walls where they lived
and died
Page(s) 58
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