Saturday, 1 October 2016


Beyond a landscape of hedgerows,
socket puddles, cisterned water,
the unadopted lane runs out
to a slick of mists. The hard shape
of a gate is a buried grid –
we lean on it and blow smoke rings
into softened autumnal air.

And it’s as if that moment’s
returning, gaining definition
without our knowing,
and we might see through
to something thickening.

We were 17. It was cold.
Across that willow waste,
the trees articulated promise.

Image: Marina Shiderova; text: Tom Phillips

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