Gillian Allnutt

How well she has worn the wooden evangelist of the mind I wrought in her. He is fraught as Angel Clare With honesty, with his latchet Worthy of her. When I am gone she will put him on the fire As if he’d condemned her.

the darkest hour the stars arisen asinine tomb and I left opened to the altogether am I to live among men abandoned I may learn to love again adrift in Jerusalem am I upon strewn palm

but for the askance in her but for the biding in abeyance of her but for the clairvoyance that came to her like a grandmother but for the expanse of love in her the lark in the clear air but for the auld acquaintedness with violence in her