Poem: ‘Birch Room’
Douglas Dunn, 1 April 1982
Rotund and acrobatic tits explored Bud-studded branches on our tallest birch tree, A picture that came straight from her adored, Delightfully composed chinoiserie.
My girl was four weeks dead before that first Green haunting of the leaves to come, thickening The senses with old hopes, an uncoerced Surrender to the story of the Spring.
In summer, after dinner, we used to sit Together in our...