Windfarm at Sea
       

Wind flowers

                            in the mist

as if dark-grown, as spindly as whims,

off the grey coast where there's no horizon

but one we infer, where they walk

or sleepwalk, in their middle distance

of just-possibility

                                considering all this

in their absent and abstracted way,

three-petalled, unpeeling themselves: loves me

loves me not — unpicking the knot of the winds,

a twist of faded ribbon tied round the idea,

no more than that,

                                of the trunk of a tree...

as if we'd stumbled on the pale machinery

that drives the weather, the obsession

in it, like the distance at the heart

of too much love. Like a stalker

in love with a ghost.

                                  Like a wedding in grey.

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Copyright © 2017 Philip Gross All rights reserved
from A Bright Acoustic
Bloodaxe Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission