She is eighty-six
and her friends are dying.
"They're dropping like flies," she grumbles
and I see black winged bodies crumbling
on window sills when we open our summer house.
Flies all over!
Brushing them onto the floor, sweeping
them up, we drop bl [...]
the red light of the falling sun
slides into the river
straddles its back, quivers with current,
quickening toward sea.
Red carries you
into the panelled library where your mother
and your father sip their drink
as the sun sinks into the [...]