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)
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