Robin Fulton Macpherson Summer without Words

In a grey part of summer I watch

a gull-shadow on harbour ripples:

an alphabet is splintered so fast

it could never be halted and whole.

In a sharp ochre part of summer,

with a taste of something that's been stored

and a presence about to leave us

and another one waiting for us,

I watch a cypress twig-shadow write

on a red gable, a shaky hand.

There's no alphabet for the writer.

There's no alphabet for the reader.

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