An end. Or a beginning.
Snow had fallen again and covered
the old dredge and blackened mush
with a gleaming pelt; but high up there
in the sycamore top. Thaw
Thaw, the rooks cried,
sentinel by ruined nests.
Water was slacking into runnels
from drifts and pitted snowbacks,
dripping from the gutter and ragged
icicle fringes. Snow paused
in the shining embrace of bushes,
waiting in the ledged curds and bluffs
to tumble into soft explosions.
And suddenly your absence
drove home its imperatives like frost,
and I ran to a high field
clumsily as a pregnant woman
to tread our names in blemished
brilliant drifts; because the time we have
is shrinking away like snow.
from Speaking of the Dead (Peterloo Poets, 2003), © Meg Peacocke 2003, used by permission of the author