top of page
And on our way home that sodium night
your windows wept the tears of the world,
twin trails, as the A3 artery jammed
with tail-lit red distended into the hills.
Decline and not death, not shatters but spills
love into the back seat, foetally curled.
The cars facing back at us flashed in the pan
a hand-cut forever of brilliant white.
bottom of page