Their PrintsMoths, ghosts, my house is full of them. I live with waves of silence but the lives roar enormous through my rooms – hung on walls, stuffed in bookcases, leaking from wounded suitcases tied with string. It rained last night, and the dead came down with the drops – to gather where the land is flat and windblown. The quiet stores their smiles.I press my finger where theirs have been, thread words to tumble them back, all talking, arguing. Ink, Sweat & Tears 2018from Sally’s fifth collection of letter-poems, My Darling Derry,available now.
Two days on the road through a brilliant Autumn dazzle,crunching chocolate-covered coffee beans. In between he sings to Dylan, Clapton, Springsteen,Beach Boys and the Beatles. My hand on his lapwhen he drives, his hand on mine when we swapuntil who is who isn’t all that clear.Musing through the options for my ring,we’re checking out how far we’ve come,new life, blue skies, moving on.New life. Blue skies. Moving on. We’re checking out how far we’ve come.Musing through the options for my ring,now that who is who isn’t all that clear. His handon my lap as I drive, mine on his when we swapsinging to the Beatles, Beach Boys, Springsteen, Clapton and Bob Dylan. In between we’re crunching chocolate-covered coffee beans through a brilliant Autumn dazzle on the road again. Two days we’ll be home. The Spectator, 12.10.2019