cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers, mornings a damascene- sealed bizarrerie of fernwork decades ago now waking in northwest London, tea brought up steaming, a Peak Frean biscuit alongside to be nibbled as blue gas leaps up singing decades ago now damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung habitat of bronchitis, of long hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing quite drying out till next summer: delicious to think of hassocks pulled in close, toasting- forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded small boys and big eager sheepdogs muscling in on bookish profundities now quite forgotten the farmhouse long sold, old friends dead or lost track of, what's salvaged is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged by mere affect, the perishing residue of pure sensation
Amy Clampitt - 1920-1994
Vacant Lot with Pokeweed
Tufts, follicles, grubstake biennial rosettes, a low- life beach-blond scruff of couch grass: notwithstanding the interglinting dregs of wholesale upheaval and dismemberment, weeds do not hesitate, the wheeling rise of the ailanthus halts at nothing--and look! here's a pokeweed, sprung up from seed dropped by some vagrant, that's seized a foothold: a magenta- girdered bower, gazebo twirls of blossom rounding into raw-buttoned, garnet-rodded fruit one more wayfarer perhaps may salvage from the season's frittering, the annual wreckage.