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William Matthews - The Cloister
Work rating: Low

The last light of a July evening drained 
into the streets below: My love and I had hard 
things to say and hear, and we sat over 
wine, faltering, picking our words carefully. 


The afternoon before I had lain across 
my bed and my cat leapt up to lie 
alongside me, purring and slowly 
growing dozy. By this ritual I could 


clear some clutter from my baroque brain. 
And into that brief vacancy the image 
of a horse cantered, coming straight to me, 
and I knew it brought hard talk and hurt 


and fear. How did we do? A medium job, 
which is well above average. But because 
she had opened her heart to me as far 
as she did, I saw her fierce privacy, 


like a gnarled, luxuriant tree all hung 
with disappointments, and I knew 
that to love her I must love the tree 
and the nothing it cares for toe.
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