Poems by Alison Brackenbury
PN Review 41, January - February 1985
Crewe to Manchester: December
When I was here last, foxgloves foamed the banks,
moon–daisies were dipping. I repeat this:
I cannot believe it. All I can see
is brambles' dark smouldering, quelled by the rain.
Where is the skewbald pony who wandered
field ridges in sunlight? The cattle seek high ground,
small ponds sweep in flood. It was a wild night -
Even the angler tramps back over fields,
his stream's swell too high to be borne.
Why did I wake
at three in the morning
wholly convinced it was dawn?
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Star Time
Star time is different. The Earth turns faster
By the chancy stars, than by the Sun.
Each day, they rise four minutes earlier.
I do not understand this; but I know
There is a pause: after sunset: when
The woman from the village with her lean black dog
Racing the curves of rabbit through the corn
Have passed on down the track; the tall young girl
Has called the long–legged puppy out the damp:
Then I, left on the ridge by hawthorn trees
Their fruit soft black from frost, have watched you pass
Along the field where hedges turn; you're lost.
Will you be back today, before the fog
Bristles along my hair? Or back, at all?
I stand. I watch. Now all true light is gone:
The sheet of frost–flame, swallowing the hill,
The far–off, barking dogs, the grumbling cars.
I can still see the ruts, and the grass flow, glinting ice.
There are four minutes left. I am listening to the stars.
These poems are taken from PN Review 41, January - February 1985. Further contributions by Brackenbury are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.