The sky a pure-pink chiaroscuro that evening

Blotches of an adamantine brittleness

Spread slowly all over the Cheshire plain,

All over the acres and acres of rich pickings.

The quarter moon is waxing to the right

Behind my back and out of sight,

A grove of black, spidery trees

skeletal and strange

Put me in mind of a MR James story

Of  an unrequited remonstrance 

Of love that stands on shaky ground.

 

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