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Rain from the west,
cleaning the wind, while
still mist hems, bank and river.
Cormorant in the slow water,
slender as a shade. In the branches
of blackthorn, thrawn grown in gale,
magpie and crow bicker,
amongst the sloe, promising should
they meet in the thin time of winter
to eat well of one another.
Here the waters bleed
fresh and salt. Where
the land drain empties,
they found the Pritchard boy,
known still by the red shock
of his hair, rusting the water,
bloated with the years left
unlived; a bland face, unwritten,
loved yet by his mother.
In this time of winter and water
brittle with dawn ice
birthed in mist
a promise fattens.
From The Journal no. 12 (Autumn 2004)