Quietly, she spoke of tea, toast, the after smell of cigars,|
Let us say we met in a room: curtained, peeling, private.
Briefly she consulted the winter afternoon,
Reviewed the deadening, leadening sky.
It was discreetly done.
No presences danced beyond no lifted curtains.
Darkness had silted us away.
Words, like spoons, stirred the air,
slipped into a net of inquisitions.
And all we left behind -
Seems framed, now, by silence.
|John Marks is a father of five, who lives in Manchester, UK with his Irish wife. He is a part-time tutor for the Open university specializing in 18th Cent. European Literature and 19th Century British Religious History. His collection of poems Lifting The Veil was published in 1997 by New Hope International. A poem from the collection can be read on Pickings. Another poem can be found on The Zimmerzine Archive.||
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