Sport 22: Autumn 1999
James Norcliffe — in the letter
James Norcliffe
in the letter
there was nothing
of the tall ice floes
the beautiful bruise of sky
the potted meat still edible
after all these years
in the letter there was
the ineffable sadness
of french horns
on an imaginary
journey to the Faroes
there was the sadness
of ink fading I suppose
the sweet symmetry
of the folds your fingers
would have pressed
all weather out of
there was in the letter
little of my hopes
only the cursive slope
of how things were
and your small hand
movements
frozen