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This poem is taken from PN Review 3, Volume 4 Number 3, April - June 1978.

A Dying Race Andrew Motion

The less I visit, the more I think
myself back to your elegant house
I grew up in. The drive uncurled
through swaying chestnuts discovers
it standing four square, white-
washed unnaturally fresh and exact
as if it were shown me by lightning.

It's always the place I see,
not you; you're somewhere outside,
waving goodbye where I left you
a decade ago. I've even lost sight
of losing you now; all I can find
are the mossy steps you stood on,
-a visible loneliness.

I'm living four counties away
and cannot escape it: you moving
...


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