Wakefield
And the train, slowing, pulls me from sleep
and stops somewhere just outside Wakefield
where the mist still hangs, ebbing,
banked beside copse and the dew-heavy grass
And folds and half rolls back like a coverlet
as the hare creeps into view. He is
all pant-breath, nose and eager listening.
Close enough to feel almost like nearness.
And memory is just as keen-eyed, you lie
leveret soft in the curled edges of half-sleep.
A thought that pricks up its ears at silence
quickening suddenly from a quiet mind field.
And then as soon moving, jolted
forward, a quick exhalation of engines.
All the noisy nothing of the coming day
the mist scatters from the looming city.
And it is gone, only bearing glances slantwise
running from fingers, eyes and too much seeking.
A dusting of hair over lips.
A hare brushing the long grass.
To Capture the Castle 