The shape of words, new and sweet
Dance like leaves, as mad as birds
From a grey suburban cube
Where you learnt to smell the rain
And see glass tubes across la Manche –
Finding here, the dust of plains
A little piece of history
Whether shapes in a room, seen as child
(“That shadow moved! It did…” she said)
They follow you, how can they not?
And furs climb high around your throat
Which pours a sweeter liquid yet –
Each syllable is lighter than before.