up close to the webs of distance and time intervening and
seven A.M. condensation where bulbs of ice hang
in winter humidity beneath overcast and shedding skies
where last calls once lead to warm walls by fire's side and
friends, wine bulbs and smoke in hands, and a boot kicks
at the scrub that struggles out of season through drifts
at the curb and a square instance of memory comes loose
a moment before eyes older see the panel snapped in full.
The thought crosses opposite the street walked aware
hardly able to seat in an album whose pages came loose
faster than leaves to Sshenley Park trees years ago.
