Unopened, dun letters envelop the floor.
Sheaf leaflets, none read; too many to mention…
But her hand, delivered today to my door –
penned, posted, scented – receives full attention.
Her lines bring pleasure to me, and I glean
nuance from her Wish You Were Here missives.
News from her mill and river, hills of dream.
‘I will, and shall, return. I send kisses.’
I miss her, I whisper. So I conjure
and raise Cuthbert’s Causeway, macadam
our passage, our birdsong adventure;
sweet bee, bring honey; unimagined.
June thirteenth, her paved shadow, first rising,
aslant in glass, brushes chrome in umbra;
blushes my morning through noon, producing
a cool breeze, implausible last summer.
I light a jarred candle and write her:
tonight the room shallows, throws shadows, and grows…
I invite her. Come, lay by my fire.
Kiss, address, send her, this song of sparrows.
Image: The Hill of Dreams (1907) Arthur Machen