TUESDAY 22
The first of Brumaire,
not much mist or gloom, and the
sun even breaks through.
WEDNESDAY 23
All the way from town,
a woman talks about the
life-cycle of bears.
THURSDAY 24
The latest leaves on
the lime trees are miniature,
yellow, descending.
FRIDAY 25
For days, a leather
glove has lain on top of this
wall, soaked by the rain
SATURDAY 26
Now it won’t be as
light at 6 as this bruised sky
until Valentine’s
SUNDAY 27
Fields are flooded but
I can’t look up for the sun
searing the windscreen.
MONDAY 28
The glove is still there,
damp, cold, silhouetted in
water underneath.
Seventeen 