The River

What surprises me now is not that you’re gone
but how I go on without you, as if I’d lost
no more than a finger. My hand still strong,

perhaps stronger, can do what it must,
carving your name on a branch from the beech
by the Suck, letting the river take you,

so I can call myself free. Only sometimes,
like yesterday  or the day before, last night or this morning,
the river flows backwards, uphill to my door.

Jane Clarke

from The River (Bloodaxe Books, 2015) 

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