The Visitor | Jenny Middleton

I open my door and find you waiting
Amongst autumn and falling, failing light
Dressed in the thickness of a dun overcoat,
The verdurous twine of ancient forests
Un-scrolling as you speak.
Your cracked lips shape islands and words isolate
The truth of your visit and the sickness
Of plastic churns grey in our ocean guts.
Inside I offer pain-killers and recycle
Panaceas of wisdom.
We analyse the figures
And skate through thinning ice against
The brooding night as the as the drift of damp moss
Grows through our conversation claiming
A small victory against the great highway.

Did you call too late?
Outside the concrete is spread and setting.

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