I would like to tell the Greeks' stories,
I would like to be warm, and clear,
(Perhaps a little more cunning).
Their honey and pastries flaked warm in my mouth.
I saw their young colts running
Twenty years ago. They are older now
Than the pony I ride through the rain
Of November, on the limestone ridge
As the storm blows North again.
Half the sky is apricot,
Washed turquoise, paler than the sea,
Then purple, bruised to violet.
The stories I will see
Will not be long or hot,
But dip, like birds in flight,
Trade for the unfelt glare of noon
The last fierce throb of light.
If you've any comments about this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.