5.

Your face was the chalk in these hills

The rain galloping on the metal roof

The wind from the sea shaking our windows

That was seven years ago now: our bones

Live in the land but not quite. You are still

Lovely though a bit stooped: my eyes cannot see

Matter — lovers have souls even though

Satires and the tabloids have it right

Some of the time. The water pounds down through the trough

And drowns out pomposity. I began

To speak about love: the moon yawns over the gate

And you sleep with your thoughts. There I will err

In describing the bond that frees in this storm.