Two roads diverge in a mellow wood
with rugged paths and uphill roads further ahead
that are dim or half-hidden.
When I try to glimpse ahead, the paths snake away
In the middle of the night, a poem walks into a London fog,
watching a train that runs along a grey track.
those times and days
Blood dripping from the pages of history books,
wartime pictures, dried bones, graveyard stones,
Twenty grey pigeons, swallowing raw rice, half-staring at me?
Twelve long-necked swans, basking in the sun, ignoring me?