Presence 81

cherry blossoms
hints of mischief
in her hazel eyes

— Manoj Sharma


dead adder
in the roadside grass
rippling heat

— Paul Chambers


names and dates—
the dogwood’s south side
starting to yellow

— Joanne E. Miller


moving house
we find old photographs
of people we used to be
my laughter lines
have grown deeper

— Simon Wilson


Now she’s gone
the sky spits at me . . .
and the cut wheatfield
is become
my bed of nails

(Fuller’s Fields, Surrey, 31.7.76)

— Tito


Astur cooperii

no one knows
where the light comes from . . .
forest floor ferns

A perfect morning, lung-filled after rain. Squirrels out, and a lone buck calling. But then it begins. A sudden chill. On the path through the woods. I look up through the trees, search for you as always, but you’re not there. Now, walking along the lakeshore, the load grows. This is not the weight of sadness. It is something deeper, heavier. A lifetime of loss perhaps, or the burden of guilt. My pace slows as a shadow crosses the sand. It is you, finally, as silent as ever. Come, take me with you once more. Let me look down through your crimson eyes. At a figure, leaning into the wind. Where is he going? What has he left behind? And who is that following with jesses of skin? Can you see the face? Can you see her?

blood-stained gauntlet
a sudden scream
from the hood

— Lew Watts