Heptonstall

I shall never put you together entirely.

Through the high grass you watch

The back of graves comb the day

To silk - hydrangeas turn like weather

And something in your heart grinds

down. Over the dark row of granite,

Martins cut the clouds to

Shreds. Cumulus, broken yet in

Movement, not quite alive but

Muscular, like

Steinberg’s Franken-JPEG; they

Only ask to be seen,

Risen over the back of the wood

With the last gold of spring

As it tosses back to summer - another

Bad screenshot, another flutter of

Photographs - life so quick it can’t be held

Beyond the occasional pitter-pat

Like the laugh of

Heather. You move in foxglove, alkanet,

False mint and the new moon

Gleam of late lamium. This is life, the life

You intended. Peonies damp in the depths

Of a heart; Azaleas pale and true

As stars; Japonica happy

And at peace

Even

In the bull black whir

Of your laptop

Hard-drive; they are paper-thin, pink

And valuable as breath.

                                                        To Heather Clark and Peter K. Steinberg