Silver Thimble

 

Protector stars exploded

in the grind of steel on silver,

they’re on my finger still, as bell,

clapper away, the bright fancy.

You stitched a lifetime

into gone clothes, glasses

pitched at the end of your nose,

two points of glint behind,

relived the start by the fens,

sewing hopeless in your lap,

thimble swinging on the eye

of a cushioned sharp.

Its pattern grips the push

through my patchwork now

and shaping peals out silence.

Reaching for Annecy

 

We drove down to the lake.

Behind us the road rose
steep to the mountain.

Snow clung to the pines.

As you look back
to the head of the valley,
reflections break slick
in the water's melt

and I can tell by the sting

in the wind 

that rain is near.

Stoke Newington Churchyard

 

The morning’s raw with frost;

there’s no one near to see

how lichen smears away

old names from graves

stacked high as tables,

nor number the leaves

that flake from planes,

branch-bare above

those who walk, crisp

through the park, eyes

turned from the gate ahead.

I count no feet on the slabbed street,

only the dead under their stone.