West Riding

Bright sari in a darkened street –
the lilting grey of Yorkshire sky;
rust requiems for demolished mills –
repeating grooves of curlew’s cry.

And did Jane once sit on this stile
and watch the moon look down on Hay,
and see the dog and hear the horse
send icy clatters through the grey?

Then later – only you to wait
( dogs rush to greet the friends not there )
the bloodstains of the sunset sink –
the red Decembers of despair.

And worlds still pirouette their stars,
while on that stage fresh actors meet,
dim picture in a golden frame –
bright sari in a darkened street.