Anne Sikking


The last ascending light, visible through trees
lowers to shun the silent dropping of leaves.

Our sap falls, Winter heralds itself, browns blown
across our feet, across Summer's green we've known.
Let's sleep.

But before we go – pull covers up to chin –
Walk the shore. Take our river deep within.
And more...

For the more we calm – bed down to sleepy dreams –
the more tide churns and calls out to us it seems.
The Clyde.

Rot, dank smells, little death after little death.
Yet each one makes space, where Spring will breathe new breath.