The Last Time We Saw Strangers

This poem was inspired by a walk along Hambrook Marshes on a bright December day. This is the title poem from my new collection published by New York base Clare Songbirds Publishing House due for release May 2018.

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The last time we saw strangers 

by Christopher Hopkins

 

 

The forecast ran

off the cold-starred hills

in ice cold streams.

The Atlantic left her snows

as the fox kill feathered lea.

 

We watch the moorhens land

duck their coot heads

in flashes of red

into the flow of the umber spill, thick

with the chill.

 

Walking the towpath

dressed as December

feeling with our feet the puddle ice

bend

and give.

 

You kiss the sun through the strobing trees

but I am thankful for your kisses ungreen

and the graffiti on the underpass

is in a dreaming of spring, deep

in the pale reed colours.

 

We move, with hitched hands

tight and bare against the cold.

We talk of the wood-burning

sing of the bitter peat sting

we’ll let the stale air out, and let the goodness in.

 

Off the idle haul road we come

and through the corkscrew rubus lines

we see the town’s bull colours.

The last time our eyes met with strangers

we were lost to the keen  river brine.