A response to Dylan Thomas’s ‘A Dream of Winter’
He offers me his picture: the dusk lake full of flitting
shadows and winter riddles. In mine, a couple idle,
breathing in the light’s last drip. Their hand-in-hand stroll
slips under the water’s dark meniscus. Untarred, they linger
in silence, not yet feeling how their time has split
like an overripe peach dropped from beyond tree-height.
No snow here, no mouths gulping at rippled surfaces,
no silver flash of flickering fishtails disappearing. Not
when I dream this moment. I edge his photo’s deserted scene
closer to my hopes, then watch. Still, his lake’s lens
fills with night; pipistrelles empty out their song.