This Evening

You placed yellow roses by the window, then,

leaning forwards, began combing your red hair;

perhaps you were crying.

To make the distance less I turned away

and faced you across the earth’s circumference.


The windowpane turns black:

across its flawed glass suddenly your image

runs on mine.

I stare at the vase until yellow

is no longer a colour, nor roses flowers.

from Histories Of Desire (Bloodaxe, 1995), © Ron Butlin 1995, used by permission of the author

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