Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Tim Parksin conversation with Natalia Ginzburg
(PN Review 49)
Next Issue James K. Baxter, Uncollected Poems Rod Mengham, Last Exit for the Revolution Stav Poleg, The Citadel of the Mind Jena Schmitt, Resting Places: The Writing-Life F Friederike Mayrocker Wayne Hill, Poems
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review 275
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 8, Volume 5 Number 4, July - September 1979.

Four Poems Fleur Adcock

Tawny-white as a ripe hayfield.
But it is heavy with frost, not seed.

It frames him for you as he sits by the window,
his hair white also, a switch of silver.

He pours you another glass of wine,
laughs at your shy anecdotes, quietly caps them,

is witty as always; glows as hardly ever,
his back to the rectangles of glass.

The snow holds off. Clouds neither pass nor lower
their flakes on to the hill's pale surface.

Tell him there is green beneath it still:
he will almost, for this afternoon, believe you.

DOWNSTREAM

Last I became a raft of green bubbles
meshed into the miniature leaves
of that small pondweed (has it a name?)
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image