Autumn

Autumn is a frozen church We wait at heavy doors That smell of rust, Not a Moon cold enough To be called heartless Or breathclouds of old steam More an estuary of Dumped mist afraid to ice; The taste of wax on your lips, A frame of hair round a Hatted face, out steps as slow As if we must tread water, You are ice and rain and The first crystals and even More than this, beside me. (for Carl Sharpe)