Late

—After an untitled landscape, by George Seeley


Where once you bent to lift a paperwhite
from the current after we lay together, dark
now holds along the bank and in the willow’s
damp beard. It could be the low moon brushes
the air with its breath, and it could be the slow
tune of its light braids the grey course
of the river. It could be. Or it could be you,
and my eyes have yet to find a place for you
gone, this dark held now along the bank,
under branches burdened with these late desires.

 

.     .     .     .     .     .

©M. L. Williams



Back