Dark gathers
In this wood
Without weather
Hours before the sun
Slips into its
Blindside run.
Blackbirds drink
The light in secret.
Dippers risk their blink
Beside the stream,
Bibs darkening
Until their gleam
Fades from sight
To memory softly
Printed by the light
That lingers yet
Behind the eyes; which
In a while I shut,
And when I look again:
No change, or hope
Of change.
Robert Saxton. Blind Love.
foto / © tom petkus
UK / 2013
