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Rating: 3.0

The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hour
the bottle in your coat half voda half winter light.
To what and to whom does one say yes?
If God were the uncertain, would you cling to him?

Beneath a tattoo of stars the gate open, so silent so like a tomb.
This is the city you most loved, an empty stairwell
where the next rain lifts invisibly from the Seine.

With solitude, your coat open, you walk

steadily as if the railings were there and your hands weren't passing
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Stephen Loomes 26 November 2019

Another work at the highest level of poetry, and the poet has such a beautiful face, to match her intellect.

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Hayder Sidahmed 31 December 2016

The soul behind you no longer inhabits your life: the unlit house with its breathless windows and a chimney of ruined wings where wind becomes an aria, your name, voices from a field, And you, smoke, dissonance, a psalm, a stairwell. Deep

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