markbousfield

Winters'

...a woman entered on a Saturday night
blindly full of confession,
our lips a cessation eclipse of the shadow from my soul,
the wakes of rushing wings
nursing corners at home,
when the night cadaver folds in
darkness and lets none of your daylight through...

...face down in the Humber
shuddering pin by pin
coloured watcher and waiter,
weightless anchor and analyser
in the Hive of one,
certaintly a passion
certaintly no doubt.