Estecote: A Vignette
Looking at the crescent moon he does miss her
All the flowers had frozen. They stuck out of the ground like knots of brittle bone. The ornaments of crystalline snow hanging off. The dim light upon her, lying sick in bed, the sheets damp with sweat. There was mud on his boots, which flaked onto the floor of the house. A child, he plucked the azaleas. The larks would sing nearby. He held her hand. Her golden eyes looking askance. Christmas came and the windows glowed with strings of light. I quietly sang the song about the river, about skating away on the river. Looking at the crescent moon he does miss her. There is no time to lose! Here in modern times we are fading, no longer crooked in the knees. But winter breaks. Love, that’s a hint to you, come and love me, gently, under the canopy — the rain is pattering outside. I smell the next town over, Lothhampond, on the wind, the sweat on their skin. Her golden eyes, like a lion’s, dying out. But there’s nothing we can do, you see. In the streets at night, with the bricolage cars straggling by, they are dancing serenely. They are swaying. Their limbs are gesturing toward eternity. The hoods of the automobiles covered in dew. You birthed this. These jubilants were birthed by you, their colorful costume… Legs together, legs apart. I am drunk!
