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December 2008, vol 4 no 4

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George Marsh

 

How Little is Left

winter dusk
how little is left of the moon
how lovely it is

Getting older now, feeling vulnerable after my operation, weak as a kitten, I refuse to accept – as I refused when I lost you – that suffering is wanting it not to be so, that I wouldn’t hurt like this if I surfed the convalescence, the grief. I need pain.

The sea churned all day and gulls cowered on the Common.

after a gale
kelp-stink in the moonlight,
crashing waves

With a stick, I can shuffle along the seafront after dark and start to think of something other than me.

Recovering now, I recall those games we won together, what a partner you were.

My favourite people are gone from me, which leaves the wind and the stars, and the flirty moon winking from wisps of smoke.

long cold night
the silver river on the sea
flows sideways

It is a long night and no sleep. I have to bring you to mind, and put you away again and, in the end, you’re mixed up with others in scenes fading to fragments until bits loop stupidly and then I’m bored awake.

before dawn
the reflection of dawn
on the restless sea

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