Jonathan Wilson

I do not know which I prefer
the cloudstack or the pillar of fire,
our walk through water
or the long, long journey
up the desert's spine.
 
Plum blossom in London,
and here they come,
spilling into the dining room
from Piotrokow out,
the first born lifting his wine glass,
the one God spared 
only to break his heart.
 
High in the plum tree,
the angels laughing,
this time getting it right.
 

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