Arrival

for Belinda

At dead of night
in summer and in winter
as long as we live
those brilliant afternoons
we held so close
in spring the birds flew
the confession of hands
opposite a blank wall
there was a world
for our violent tenderness
clocks moving to and fro
painted trees whispered
to drink of your voice
asking why we loved

[unclear: aked] to the wind
[unclear: sky] grew unbearable
[unclear: rined] in a room
[unclear: s] of your laughter
[unclear: r] than the night light
[unclear: adow] followed you away

Rhys S. Pasley.

Photo by Des Kelly