For Martin: 21.2.38 – 07.10.18
It's here again, the gold leaf season.
Amongst the dispossessed of poplar
and willow, silver collects.
A river in full spate. Fish and fly
act out their hunger games.
Below reeled lines, the keep nets fill.
Greying hair, black ink. She writes
his name and weaves half-rhymes
Heron, hunched and dull
like an old consort, takes sudden flight.
Water draws rings round emptiness.
Colours seep from the end of day.
Pen and rod, a handful of leaves
my direction, home, without you.