Mornings of long silence. I wake late
to the wind and the grey light
of winter coming. The milk
stands cold and alone on the step.
In my dream you shook your dark hair
and turned from me at last.
I bring in the milk.
Yes you loved me for certain.
I think of you. How at times
the world stopped in your hair
where I cried my cry uselessly.
I pour out the milk in the jug.
You betrayed me, having no choice
apparently. Did what you must.
For love of you I scattered my cries
across England. I make tea.
I make it like everything slower these days,
and consider my lack of compassion
back when the world melted in you.
I pour out the milk.
Now your letters no longer arrive.
Your regrets don’t whiten the morning.
Winter does that. And my fury.
I pour it all out. I pour it away.