Two Poems
Anne Rouse, 14 September 1989
We’ve floored it from London. The bridge winches up; the moat bares To green algae silk, kitchen relics, The bones of suicides.
The snow, fine as bride’s Fine lace, stacks up its trousseau: A terrain in bedsheets, smoothed from memory. The town’s dead as midnight.
Rushing the houses of the estate, The wind skims the roof Like a bruising hand. From now, a...