Old School Mag.

Her mouth, I think, was soft.
She left long years before me.
Even the scene is lost,
The dark road, the garden trees,
And the silent dark assumed
Into the bare white map of now.
Her eyes?
Brown as the earth beneath.

12.3.08

Love Poem

addressed to Miss Elizabeth Bishop in my sickness.

Rolling over to repack my ribs
Who, who is this?
Oh welcome Miss Elizabeth to my bed
Tied up in a white sheet round my knees
And all complete
The whole lovely volume of you!
Pair to my pleasure, partner to my hopes,
Let me unwrap you, press you to me,
While you whisper to this damaged breast
Sweet Liz, that all is well and I may rest
Till nursey comes and tidies you away!

Roy Ashwell