After an Affair

under the dustsheets
there are daffs, crocuses, and primroses
poking through.  

In your sleepless head
a sheepdog controls your fear;

instruments tune up
and what you think
could be funk
is a colliery brass band.

It seems I give my opinions
from between cars parked
on double yellow lines.

Your anger runs like the blood of a haemophiliac.
 
And yet a breeze
and your leaves show their underside.
 
And you are the puddle
that infers a faint unmentioned rain;

a root
pushing up a paving stone,
crossing a hillside woodland path.

Tristan Moss

If you have any comments on this poem,  Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear from you.