neither twist
          Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
     Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd
          By nightshade
                          John Keats, Ode on Melancholy
     

Ah, that old chagrin d’amour!
 

The first was used as an example of syllabics in my post of that name in Voyage of Discovery in Pffa.

WINTER

Watching the shadows creeping on the heights
of the tallest towers. Watching the dull
orange sunbeam in the afternoon lull
of the mezzanine. Watching as the lights
of uniform cars empty from the lot.
Making no move, grey in the smallness
of a distant reflection, a restless
echo in the world, of what now is not.

Living things are warm. The space between
is cold as winter stars. It is not crossed
unless by hands, unless by sentences.
Without a voice, a touch, nothing springs green;
silence is laced in needlepoints of frost
and all tomorrows will be absences.

      2000
     

The second appeared as post #6 in the thread Guess the Pffa Poet in Challenges.

VISITOR

     14 February

She:

The year’s an old bus
grinding through the mountains,
bumping down to winter.

Look! It’s stopped, and there’s
a visitor at the gate -
someone exciting?

God! It’s Valentine.
Pretend he isn’t there, or
he’ll come trespassing -

every year he calls,
hawking old laughter, kissing,
holding one another.

Open the gate to me,
he sings. Today is Love’s day;
who knows what comes after?

Do nothing. He’ll leave
on the same bus at midnight,

bumping down to winter.

      2001
     

The third had a thread in Love in Pffa.

PICNIC

What a day! Serenely blue and benign!
Why don’t we go and picnic the headland?
Some hot French bread from Victoire in Balmain
and some cold ratatouille with the lamb!

Glasses, too - what do you think, red or white?
My silver bottle-opener - where’s it gone?
Doesn’t a wicker basket look just right,
and the rug and starched napkins and we’re done!

Only speak of gladness now. We can laugh,
avoiding various names and photographs;
not mention you’re away home tomorrow.

Here’s to us! Pretending it’s years ago,
insisting the whole harbour’s just our show,
still our park. It’s our own time we borrow.

      2004