the fuchsias have fallen open and glad
their plucked tongues fanned still on the wintering stone.
tumbling upon them
with my day-heart and my needle lip
ruffling them to wreathes.
in the quickening turn the run of things
the birds fenced in by fog and wind
the browning days
the dug-in sun.
The dying season. And the rain comes
loud as a twinning sound
pooling in the dents that absence has left.