Jonathan Wilson

I do not know which I prefer

the cloudstack or the pillar of fire,

our walk through water

or the long, long journey

up the desert's spine.


Plum blossom in London,

and here they come,

spilling into the dining room

from Piotrokow out,

the first born lifting his wine glass,

the one God spared

only to break his heart.


High in the plum tree,

the angels laughing,

this time getting it right.


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