The bog

See the snow,
a blanket on the slanted window. 
It melts slowly.

You clean 
and stay in the kitchen getting
thoughtless, doleful,
into the nowhere patch that doesn't do much, 
unlike the ones he wears for his dreams.

A slow, somnolent release,
phrases that creep from the crease,
that you try to avoid 
because this day feels so usual. 
You doubt it and drink a cup of tea,
staring at a Sunday stream,
at those other words opening
like trapdoors, or bogs
that are waist deep.

Your dad laughed when you 
went in up to your thighs,
walking on a flat-topped fell,
among the grey and green, 
the barren beauty of 
Lake District peaks in the drizzle. 
You went off-track,
footprints disappearing
as language does.
The waiting bog,
a presence that will not set. 

A tree by the river

The naked branch
Thin, desolate fingers,
silhouetted against 
the dimming blue. 


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