A silver cobweb in the window.
It’s a cold, dripping morning.
Dew has turned the grass white.
Not yet really cold, but a warning shot.
Soon, winter will be here. It arrives like
the last chapter of a novel.
The left hand is filled
with the bulk of finished pages.
The right holds the slender leaves
that remain. Always a temptation
to rush through at this stage.
To get on with the next story
in the stack. But this is a mistake:
you have to take the time
to savour every word.
Trying to make sense of these things: the silver,
black and blue. Dylan’s face, always in the shadow,
the wide-brim of his hat, that strange raising
of the upper lip that’s almost, but isn’t, a smile.
Distortions and echoes.
Before the cobweb