Skip to main content
table of contents
60.
The hedges on Herschel Road
Spill over on to the pavement
Pollen wafts from the purple garden
As if the translunar world were
An afterthought. Places have
A personal haunting: as I look
Across St John’s field from Grange Road
Embers die in the night of stars, though it is
Day still. Glades may seem quaint
But they are all we have for now.