Had Posset verged with Webley
and cloud gone cold,
then the fierce black
bull that dogged us
would not be spoken of
in whispers, brave sad remedy
salvaged from the fire.
The brawls and nose-dive
adulteries might not have been
wiped traceless from the slate,
but a moment’s pause to serve
as wounded token, scouting party
to the curses and the tears.
Winter will come sudden
on the wild bunch,
the clouds will at last
bank to that dreamed of
fog, no birds to crowd
the low sky, having
already gone on ahead.
When the first of our number
is selected for the chill
and stillness of reprieve,
eyes and ears will fill
with accident or illness,
and hearts turn over
for signs of shadow suicide.
Reprise that afternoon,
the slight return of noise and sun.
Line up some image
to excise nakedly and numb,
this something happening somewhere,
that swallowed up the others
but not us.