in the bone white dish,

a cargo of garlic;

ten bruise-pink cloves

in a nest  of papery skins,

like dormant commas

awaiting the next sentence.

.

The station clock was at quarter to ten.

I’m going to plant them, you said.

‘They need to catch the first frost, and perhaps,     

 next year,

we’ll cook together.’

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I stood naked on the step, in the cold rain

that swept up the valley from the sea,

while you poured warm water

onto the back of my neck and the

shivering skin between my shoulder blades.

Do it again, I cried, and you did

until the laughing bowl was empty

and I ran in to dry by a chattering fire.

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and acts out its dramas on a larger stage. 

We awoke to the expectant dawn, ate

by the long shadows of a cowering sun,   

while an army of dark clouds decamped  

despatched their batallions up the valley,   

until the summits were shrouded and green slope,

grey crag grew sombre with dread.       

Then a relentless rain dropped like net curtains,

drawn across the windows of the mind. 

Sorrow flowed down the face of the fell,

merged with the grumbling river and the angry   

tumbling flood took it all back to the sea. .

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