I went for a walk at Oxford.
It was misty and bright, silver edged black trees needling the pale sky.
The ground was wet and dark, mud ringing under my feet.
I was alone and tired, limping forward on my swollen ankle,
humming under my breath in the exhaling mist.
I waited at the crossroads and then
crossed a bridge, walked into the trees, and laid out under the sky.
From the bench my back was spread on
I saw the dark branches of trees,
stuck to the grey clouds.
I closed my eyes, patient,
closed them, spread out, back flat, stretched on the high bench,
Cold grey wood against my spine, my legs and ankles--
I closed my eyes and felt the pins and needles
of mist that was almost rain, prickling my nose and eyelids-
I closed my eyes, paling under the whiteness of the sky,
The watercolor made of the cold world,
I closed my eyes and remembered you, fair unfair,
And opened them again.