Mist
In the skirt of the highlands
caught in the weave of my mind
I pick dahlias in a field
hidden in outer London.
High, dry white stone walls
stalk between Yorkshire and Cumbria.
Northern Italy spins in, sprigged
with hill villages. Wine
flows, past and present, annually.
Unfold the places for people!
Hands on a driving wheel,
friends who walk and talk
in a sleeve of time,
I ribbon with my mist.
Sally Evans
|