Saturday 17 February 2018

The River

What surprises me now is not that you're gone

but how I go on without you, as if I'd lost

no more than a finger. My hand still strong,

perhaps stronger, can do what it must,

like carving your name on a branch from the beech

by the Suck, letting the river take you,

so I can call myself free. Only sometimes,

like yesterday or the day before, last night or this morning,

the river flows backwards, uphill to my door.

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