Rob Galpin

And now in November, possibilities closing,
I think of openings. February: democratic light

not hoarded by trees, days time-stretched
to let air in—streets grit-scoured and renewed.

And low sun at the first beachside bench;
and love, stirring in the mild midday gap,
is astonished—can't grasp it—this, a further year!

And holding then, a memory for a moment—
it fades in the thinner hours of the afternoon,
cold and open as a late quartet.