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MOTION, Andrew



The first


What I remember is not

your leaving, but your not

coming back – and snow

creaking in thick trees,


burying tracks preserved

in spiky grass below.

All afternoon I watched

from the kitchen window


a tap thaw in the yard,

oozing into its stiff sack,

then harden when evening

closed with ice again.


And I am still there,

seeing your horse return

alone to the open stable,

its reins dragging behind


a trail across the plough,

a blurred riddle of scars

we could not decipher then,

and cannot heal now.