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Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from PN Review 41, Volume 11 Number 3, January - February 1985.

Poems Alison Brackenbury


When I was here last, foxgloves foamed the banks,
moon–daisies were dipping. I repeat this:
I cannot believe it. All I can see
is brambles' dark smouldering, quelled by the rain.

Where is the skewbald pony who wandered
field ridges in sunlight? The cattle seek high ground,
small ponds sweep in flood. It was a wild night -
Even the angler tramps back over fields,
his stream's swell too high to be borne.

Why did I wake
at three in the morning
wholly convinced it was dawn?


Star time is different. The Earth turns faster
By the chancy stars, than by the Sun.
Each day, they rise four minutes earlier.

I do not understand this; but I know

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