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Sleepless I opened the slats of the bathroom’s

white Venetian blind expecting darkness

but the eastern sky over our neighbours’ roofs

was already pale, and the Morning Star glowed

gilded, and I suddenly remembered

being in the yard of an old coaching inn,

standing by a sandstone horse trough still used

for hunts, its water frozen so deeply

I could only crack the surface with my fist.

Behind the inn farmland – ploughed, hoar frosted,

horse trampled – stretched unfenced over a rise.


Disconnected shames and regrets, that restless,

anxious night, had jerked through my synapses

like shunted railway wagons. Seeing the star,

watching the day becoming lucent,

I wondered how the memory of

something so seemingly innocent,

and so soon over, should have lasted

and returned unprompted like some sort of

revelation: remembering the ice

in the trough, and, stretching out of sight,

those ridden, roughshod fields.




© Copyright David Selzer
2 Responses
  • Catherine Reynolds
    July 21, 2019

    You describe a breathtakingly beautiful landscape of rurality and personal anguish. The contradictions and tensions of person and place come through in your eloquent narrative.

    • David Selzer
      July 21, 2019

      Thank you, Catherine – just what wanted to achieve. Such feedback is invaluable.

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