After intimate talk
After intimate talk we come out into the night
And drive towards a dark dramatic sky
Down an avenue of orange lights. We pass
A churchyard whose graves are milky white
And trees made sombre, ghostly‑dark.
We do not talk now. The landscape seems filled
With blots of ink: all we spoke about
Was as deep and wide as this: we made
These dark damp shadows on the grass
And restoring one another’s hope spilled light
On the surfaces we pass. Billboards
Housefronts, sleeping flowerbeds.
The moon it seems, approves.
The dark clouds rise
Lit from below as though with wings
As though sharing beans brings in the dawn.