Ann Pilling

Novelist and Poet

Life

I have narrowed it to a plain place
less talk, less folk.

Today I watched a man walk down a field
along a rope of wall, its stones
still hugged by melting snow that made
fish spines on the emerging green.

I have learned about finches and moons,
walked only by stars, marvelling
how their still, cold light felt warm to me.

The frost opens old cuts but here
I have no past and the land
arched between that life and this
is generous, like the speckled breasts
of these spring-hungry thrushes.

from "The Dancing Sailors"
March 2010

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