Sport 18: Autumn 1997
Spindrift Sunday
Spindrift Sunday
There are, of course, the children
as rowdy as dwarves,
a beloved wife whose hair
smells of graphite and sebum.
But you leave the sodden lawn
and burdened hollyhocks
to drive into the country.
You know a man who butchers cars
in a disused abattoir.
Poplars. Idle signals. Silent bells.
Leaving is like arriving.
The town ends in dandelions and silos;
the rain drifts in like seed.