At Putney

Pink scud clouds over the bridges,        Vauxhall, Lambeth, Battersea, spider-work. Black. The syllables        of water, black. Go. Stay. Met in air, met in water, and I a child        of summer born far from here on a Thursday. A Thursday, you say?        Far to go and full of woe. And what year was it, the house        a page torn from the […]