J.V.
Prospero
Night sinks its wells among the trees, sketches
wolves’ heads in the underhangs. Land and water
heave a while, then lie in great blocks over Winter.
Some comrades have not yet learnt to wait:
one bumps bloated along the thickening river;
another blackens his bones in a hut fire. Warm
at last, eh? But the living things, too, trail steely
vapours to empty traps, to battered settlements,
to a little sense of elsewhere. As for me,
twelve birds hang like gloves on the beam-hooks.
I pad gently through these years in felt boots.
Send news. Send books. I’ll not burn ‘em.
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