Two Poems
Don Paterson, 21 August 2003
By the time he met his death I’d counted off twelve years and in the crossed and harrowed path could read my whole career
the nights of circling alone in corridors of earth the days like paler nights, my lodestone dying to the north
while I lived by what uncertain meat left from his repast and what rainwater and bitter light could worm in through the crust
And in that time my...