After three days I have to wash —
I am prising you from under my nails
Reluctantly, as time will deface
The tracks, their branching sequence,
The skill of the left and the right hand.
Your script curls on the labels of jars,
Naming pulses in the kitchen press.
The dates you marked in the diary come and pass.
The wet leaves are blowing, the sparse
Ashes are lodged under the trees in the wood
Where we cannot go in this weather.
The stream is full and rattling,
The hunters are scattering shot —
The birds fly up and spread out.
I am wearing your shape
Like a light shirt of flame;
My hair is full of shadows.