The English countryside is littered
With shy brides. They stroll with intention,
The tweedy kind, through church graveyards
And past the signposts of each hedged lane.
And some are commonplace as vegetables,
And some are ministering angels,
And some are aproned to their stalls,
And some are pale as pealing bells.
And some, like her, are open roads
In morning light. She cracked my life in half,
The early part swept away like broken cups.
I no longer hear my name in distant seabirds’
Chattering. I hear it in the creaking roof,
And the soft whisper of our discarded maps.