I can hardly speak but I will try,
my brain falls silent, still;
it is the dying of the light
when a ferment of tenses
lead up many blind cul de sacs.
Lingering, a moonlight-figure,
mirrors the sparkling frost - 
she’s gone but never lost - 
suspicious silence offers a respite
outside, all is wild, sky, the colour of blood,
soaks up our dreams and fancies:
a barge meanders down a river
on a bright mid-summer morn,
I hear peals of girlish laughter
echo from the banks.
Passing under metal bridges, ladies
quiver like parasols, men in top hats,
like well-paid actors in a film about rivers,
fall into the water,
one after another, as if this was a deliberate
act of mass suicide. Which it is.
Bodies splash into the sweet scent
of grass newly cut and just
forty-two years old and gloriously confused
she removes her shoes and happily remembers
that wildfires cannot be bought or sold,
and quietly, her yearning to be, is born again..

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