Sleepers in Fog

—for Sylvia Plath

The dead sleep in the fog—
Tombstones and stars
Regarding me sadly
I’ve disappointed them

The traffic releasing—
Lines of breath along
Cramped Market Street
There in North Tawton

Horns dolorously honking—
In the morning and then
Rush hour evening traffic
Coming back from work

Tall dark yew trees—
Silhouetting the night sky
As St Peter’s looms in
The boney heart’s silence

Ted no longer threatens—
To pull me down into
The starless fatherless
Dark watery graves

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