I was a night-walker,
Hair in a tangle of rain
And a lightness round my feet.
The earth dark, warm and softly wet.
He was journeying too,
Probing the secret air,
Dragging a silvered courage
Over each unequal stone;
Proceeding in silence.
And now
He is not.
For all those climbing whorls
Of polished sepia, spiralled cream,
Yes, all his crisp defences
Lie
Smashed, fragmented....
Tomorrow I shall see him
Dead,
Staining my path.
Tonight
I am so sorry,
Snail.
(September,
1980)
