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Sport 39: 2011

Marking time

page 298

Marking time

we breasted the same river twice,
and, in winter, cocked our heads
to creaking ice
as a beloved dog
skated beyond all calls
for hours.

           Dark heads down,
we shed our griefs and truths
behind the kind disguise
of hoods and heavy rain.

           Remember the day
we swam back in our clothes;
the night we touched
torchless at hedgerows
to get home

           and that desperate afternoon
you beat a path to me
as I cried in a phone box in Blakeney,
grass seeds stuck to your jeans,
wild hair—

I still think the beat of our walk;
the weight of your arm;
the warm pocket of your coat.