It still lives, the fog under the tree, the slippery light
From the observatory, the verdigris bell
Hangs there, a question in the day, a sharp pain
In the night when stars change their chambers
Ruthless as disloyal lovers, lost lovers, lost.
He had to do it, didn’t he? There was a path
Full of black syrupy endlessness, a flash from a car
The only illumination, no valley was as tenebrous
As the one carved from the bone of his mind
Violets grow here in April
This is the very place
This is where it happens.
Veronica Aldous 2016 all rights reserved