Boat piers are much alike.
Stepping ashore at The Stone House,
Doused in the inky stream of Acres Lake

We walk a tarmacadam line
Where curvature comes together
As strands of carmine

Climb through migrant sprays
Of laburnum and maple.
In a wait that slowly accumulates

Until too long, hours refract,
And like a tiptoeing through a glass lean-to
We examine the stills of this romance –

The trays of alpines dusted over,
The hunter’s shot leaving no report,
The tennis court going under –

Trying to fathom that flinty allure
As somehow the wail
Of the long-haul Dublin train

Recalls a man who was falling,
Crying out somewhere
For his coffee-stained hill,

Folding his wings as if all he desired
Was a polished strip
Amongst petrified pines,

Where the stain of silence
Would be heaven sent,
And boat piers would greet the innocent.

Send Letters To:

The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN

Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

Read anywhere with the London Review of Books app, available now from the App Store for Apple devices, Google Play for Android devices and Amazon for your Kindle Fire.

Sign up to our newsletter

For highlights from the latest issue, our archive and the blog, as well as news, events and exclusive promotions.

Newsletter Preferences