if she is waiting, it is on

some scruff of a hill,

where the house barges

its one storey out


against the valley's weather.

it takes a month

for her letter to reach

the trills of her neat


typewriter; longer

for them to find their way

down the tight-wound

clockwork of the hedges.


her pleasure is in white things,

fresh milk from the wet

of sheds a half-mile below,

the spilt cloud framing a yolk;


if she is content, it is

only the glow, numb,

of a fire smothered

with white sprays, and flowers.

© Meirion Jordan