Wintersea

Wintersea

for a reader not yet born


My always approaching Proserpina
follow the fragile wren tracks
newly stamped
into a thin blotter
of cold, white paper

see the message
left for you. Move past
the column of limb heavy
leyland cypress and berry clotted
pointed illex, follow

the skirting bone sound
the brown song
in the dead leaves

forgo the artificial heat of the orangery

and come to fatal Wintersea
where oceans bloom in fields
of white-capped flowers
preparing to ride us under

on this waiting fruit
bite down.