scene with rooks and crows

blonde building
blonde woman
cool cloudy air and the sun
veiled but shining somewhere
the words and pictures of
	here and long ago
the little old windows and the
large slates
sturdy roof escapes me and
the ground is all water - 
daughter with no laughter -
and a deep well of tears
	filling buckets
filling years
of rooms and roads of
glooms and disposal moments
where it all went
and left me
with a body, carved
figure, fissure, round,
the trees are not bare now:
Spring has come
a Spring for the living
and the sweet smell 
of the air: warm place
Lancashire, with Dutch
and the hearth of another
who came, spoke, and
parted onto another road

all the loads
of time and emptiness
have brought me here
to the call of the freight
train with its cargo:
Thursday's child has
far to go -
	and the gordian knot
of exigency and expectation

this is my time: now:
in this place
but no meaning rises
to fill the void:
	I still miss her face
	and the fact of her near,
there seems no sense to my
	and it frightens

into the call 
of the black birds and their
wheeling wings, breathing
freedom every moment,
not clinging to earth
and grass
	as if they could
solace the past and the
	loss -
Saturday's child is
	loving and giving

but there seems no way
	from here, the next
step blocked, gear
	stuck - maybe
what luck I had
has finally run out

and I am beached
watching the birds,
clutching my fate,

how sweet and calm the
	air, here, and the
beautiful trees -
	there is beauty

out there, I just don't
feel it - her large
	heart was
bonny and bright and good
	and gay

and the water rises to 
choke me, to say:
there is no rest:
	pass by

it is darker now as
the light fades
and the air cools
	and I must rise
my hands are cold
on the tracks

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