thin slip
walking with a stoop like a man carrying the weight
of two hearts in his chest the silhouette pares
an unlikely path across the smeared edge of dawn
the mundane sun of a yellow street lamp
drops light that fails to hit the ground
squadrons of starlings flicker from darkness to darkness
the valley trembles under this thin slip of a morning
swaddled in mists that ensnare sound there is no rain
yet everything is damp
roof tiles licked a deeper shade dry unevenly
a river heard not seen admits of motion
that we had stopped believing in
I reach for your hand once more and fail once more
Nick is from Yorkshire and would be a great deal more miserable if it weren’t for good whisky and strong coffee.
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