The River

This is my formula for the fall of things:

we come to a river we always knew we’d have to cross.

It ferries the twilight down through fieldworks


of corn and half-blown sunflowers.

The only sounds, one lost cicada calling to itself

and the piping of a bird that will never have a name.


Now tell me there is a pause

where we know there should be an end;

then tell me you too imagined it this way


with our shadows never quite touching the river

and the river never quite reaching the sea.

from Grain (Picador, 2009), © John Glenday 2009, used by permission of the author and the publisher.

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