Take a walk to the back garden,
to find me sitting at the table.
Smoking and drinking wine, we
can talk about the weather
and how we rather like the rain.
I can read aloud some lines
of flowery prose, and you can
touch my arm like you did
when you loved me. Before the death
of hope, when I'd fall asleep
on a long drive home and wake
to find you humming along
with a song on the radio, rain
as percussion. And we could remain
that way forever, even if
the word now means "a day".
You are so brave & spiteful. I can smell you in the wet.
ReplyDeleteDylan Thompson, I have tried to find your email on the internet, but all there is is your twitter (which I find impossible to read: all these @ and #dhfahfsdhfaiewu), and this lovely blog.
I deleted my Facebook. I deleted my phone. I would like to see you.
I resisted contacting you this way for a while because I am wary to put my email in such a public place (I'm sure everyone is reading this including my parents).
But I can't seem to think of any other way to reach you.
If you could be a dear and delete this after you read it, my internetaphobia would be calmed.
ecclinker@gmail.com
Hope you see this,
your Liz