to Brian Merrikin Hill
The meeting that we planned
never seemed to happen;
the ways from mind to mind
were cascading paths
of yellowing words.
Now there are only these
arcane itineraries
to the secret house on the hill,
the haunts of gulls and the distant
reaches of marram grass,
to the lonely altars and the black madonnas.
First published in Pennine Platform (Spring/Summer 1997)
