Poets

1 The splashes were throngs of panic, accompanied by pleas of help - that night when all calm shattered like frozen glass. We rushed out to find father in the pool submerging himself against all resistance, wrestling with arms trying desperately to pull him out.

It's wet underfoot with no paths running through the heather; I passed a dead sheep on the peak of this moor overlooking the valley Where the Calder flows beneath the frail cover of winter trees; Up here, the roar of the wind fills my ears, the cold slaps my face.

Perhaps the road did end up somewhere. I see it now, in the grainy photograph she took, bending away on the southern coast of Sweden; telephone posts linked with slack wire disappearing into the countryside where the road turns to tufted dunes.