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Ian Brinton



Wild fennel by a pebbled shore,
gull-figured against grey house fronts,
wheels in damp leaves to harbor memories.
‘He knows,’ he said, ‘and all that good
is now gone into sere: twigs and strands of fur
do not belong to last year’.
Her silk on silk, imploring eyes, soft fingers
moving as black night’s wilt is brush-
washed over paper to your view.
In the hedge frost stills and yarrow droops:
pin-white points a frond as moon will glint on shifting surf.
‘You had to tell him; you had to start again.’
Dwarfed by the legs of a motorway bridge
a single figure hoes in rain.


Copyright © Ian Brinton, 2019