Slush
Sometimes now when I think of snow,
The summer`s sun anaesthetising the lawn,
And the garden stream barely wetting its black stones, I also think of you
Plunged in slush to your shins on Princess Street,
Wet mane shaken above long red coat,
Just back from the train and there
And then looking into unseeable distance
Past news and books and music and bed,
To see Magritte`s candle and eggs in the narrow
Kitchen where we`d kiss before eating.