across familiar fields

Here's a Selima Hill poem, taken from her pictured 1997 collection (which I've had since publication), and from which I don't think I've actually ever blipped before :


Your Face

I haven't seen your face for so long now
I feel like a small exhausted traveller
who, coming home one evening in late summer
across familiar fields in fine rain,
finds a ruin where her house should be
and no one there to greet her at the gate.

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Selima Hill (1945 - )

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