from Moving with Thought


  The willow stoops
in April sunlight
  as you did, sweet,
into our mirror.

  You’d click the switch,
then comb the iron
  through falling hair,
loose as the willow’s.

A punter leans outside the bookies.
He flicks a fag towards the pavement
where mums wield prams or double buggies
and schoolboys yield into the gutter.

He sighs and waits as if for something
he cannot find the proper noun for.
He cricks his jaw and tongues the craters
where nagging teeth no longer yellow.


Matt Clegg