Rob Galpin

I've been waiting to find my way back.

I can not be the same person
who watched the pine and oak wood age.

Getting here
I passed through blackthorn like mist.

I do not mean I became the mist.

In the café
the girl is slowly sweeping the floor.

The way back will be the test of it:
the blackthorn, the red mass of haws—

and the rain,
its black towers over the lake.