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Letter to the Unknown Wife XVII
by Neil Aitken

Pulled over at the side of the road with miles
left to go, I rest at the far edge of your name
and write. Outside, the fields move dark
with the memory of slow horses and you
in the wind. Rain breathes low on the neck,
stains the half-wound window and the empty seat
beside me. I cannot sleep, but turn to the sky,
wondering who else looks up at this hour
when even the stars have dimmed their lamps
and crept back to their silent cells to dream?
All night this longing grows like a white grief
laid in the wild grass, or the long shadow of fire
against the world filling with coal-eyed crows,
and the sound of the river sinking out of sight.


First published in I.T Post Magazine
 

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