Morning after funeral;
green testicles
in trees.
Pass the Moseley junction.
At the lights
girl full with child
rubs her cotton belly
(optic spasm pattern)
as if a bit of fear might shift.
Come out into grey.
Come out into cold.
Almost the rain.
Autumn has that particular smell, the one that runs through your poem. I need to go grab a cardigan...
ReplyDeleteCouldn't help remembering this...
ReplyDeleteWet loam not permafrost, but still. Yet it's her fullness holds out the sliver of hope in the picture. The fear's got to be shifted somehow. Else how carry on.
Not sure I've a cardie anywhere, Marie, but suddenly feel the need of one.
ReplyDeleteMaybe it's the conjunction of change and suffering that has Emily Jane show up. For me, the whole week was run through with signs of both.
I'd written it down and thought it, but hadn't really felt the sliver of hope until now. I guess the week had to be done.