That Year

in Blickling Park, Winter anglers weaved word-lines through fleeting water and a man’s heron-necked lamp fire-flied the dark

I folded myself in quiet, even trees never noticed the absence of me.

Seals breached an Autumn’s Horsey gold, to birth in pure-blue tidal drifts and a diver felt a heave of light beneath his fins

A wish-book of possibilities waited to be written and I did not, none.

In Castle-Acre’s Spring, a child was taught the secret language of bells and goats ruminated on the simplicity of things.

My hands hung heavy with the loss of others, I could not weigh their touch.

In Sheringham’s bright Summer a woman loved in a sea of blossom, and cat smiled in shadowed curl.

My pale room was drawn, bed-ridden, I could not let the morning clatter in.

In a seasonless shattered night, a Yemeni sat in a white corridor of dying, naming each bright windowed star slowly, oh so very slowly. One by one.