Poem — Elizabeth Smither

After intimate talk

(for Viv)

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.

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