RUINS AT FOTHERINGHAY

day died at four o'clock
that winter walk in the country
sun's blood flooding the sky with arctic power
trees wind-scattered
birds shocked into rabbit holes
four of us trod the stubble frost
exhaling ice-sharp meadow
scaling the earth alight in winter's fire


broad in his duffel coat and gumboots
he strode easily, bred on the land.
Close she shiverered
wind-drugged and remote,
all her warmth curled in his gloved hand.
Wilderness held them together.
At home
stumbling apart
marriage had never synchronized
their footsteps from the start.
Down the empty railway track
he laughed and kissed her mouth
probing deep wrong.
Only in this dream
where seagulls wheel about the plough
did they belong


the two boys led on, turning as they talked
their handsome bearded faces
swinging arms, four slim legs walk as one
to quicken to the rhythm of the night in whispered secrets
their lonely house under the moon
held months of tenderness


but it would soon
be lost in the promiscuous city.
His lover's tears, a vengeful suicide
last pulsing of the blood-red wound,
no more his lover's pity



we knew nothing
of the other couple's pain
but sunset brought us close
wrapping friendship in unspoken thoughts,
sat on the castle ruins, Fotheringhay, deep in the fen
where mary stuart screamed and screamed unheard
seeing the block
the long stare of a virgin queen


and as a day slid down the universe
the towering windows of the chapel blazed with endless suns
and groups of people gazed