To all laments and purposes Poem by Sarah Howe

Against platinum birches

I want nothing here [but you].



We have trees at home. Shall I

wing you the courtyard fountain's



midnight palaver, to lull

the list of your lonely sleep?



Love is wicker, then water;

marriage an avenue of



limes, but not the bitter kind.

I'm stood at the north extreme:



the reflecting pool unrolls

a shadow world of clouds &



yews, another far orchard,

enamelled pavilions.



It's shaking hardly at all.

My nights are aloner too.