THE FROGMORE POETRY PRIZE 2003
FOR FRANCOIS COUPERIN
is a pulse, almost hidden in the leaves
And a series of steps, mossy and uneven.
Darkness plods about in sensible shoes
Ignoring the moon behind a cloud,
A posteriori, of course, everything
And the identity of the murderer
Nonetheless, ferns as curled as capitals
Are unfolding like unborn fingers.
Eased out of loam by their creamy roots
Suddenly the whole wood is filled
What was so simple has become full of branches.