Between the Worlds The sky looked as it’s never looked again. The breeze carried words on the tip of its tongue: revelations. We thrived in this hiatus of routine: All day the giddy colours of a dream then the lucidity of darkness. A sunset infused with such terminal red it shocked the whole harbor at Fishbourne, heightened senses, the discarding of self-consciousness: These were our compensations for what was to come. Inerasable images. Germination In the soil of the allotment frost thrives frost thrives in lungs of roots and seeds. Across the bay light puckers light drains away to one last fold of gold. Now I’m expected to lie beneath covers unmoving without will in darkness. A heart half-stilled half-stilled still ticking listening to the rain’s thunders. Migration All night I listen to the fair being dismantled, lie imagining the carousel disbanded – horse by horse – the bagging-up of goldfish; that longed-for rush as lost coins fill the mouths of lifted slots. Our sycamore’s shawlless. Frost seizes flower beds. Goose-pimpled legs chase covers. Suddenly hedgerows are restless with the seeds of flight, sewn in a dream. Now as light sliced by the blind steepens its gradient, ticking engines wait to migrate to the cold roads of England. Over ponds and wetlands wild birds practice formations.