Richard Caddel
From Wreay Churchyard
West House Anthology
 
 
What of memory, a
                     film not
wound on properly, cold
                      daylight.

Pine trees, then, for
                     memory, a
black plastic sheet
                      flapping. Pinecones

of stone. Letter B
                      stray in the
glass, larksong, fire
                      forgotten, it was

Spring in the far
                      hills, it was
time.