That when you
Tilt
Poems
On their side
They
Look like
Miniature
Cities
From
A long way
Away.
Skyscrapers
Made out
Of
Words.
Forest
I want you to
Slow down
I just want it all
To slow down;
I want to make a forest
Of a moment
And live in that forest
For ever
Before you go.
St Albans, England, 1891
Jeremiah Cartwright had read the sky and declared, with a dark seriousness, that it was going to rain later and that he must go for iron while it was still dry. He wouldn’t be back for another hour. I was alone, by the forge, watching the metal as it glowed red, then orange. Yes, as in life, strike while the iron is hot, but not just any heat. You had to wait until the orange was starting to brighten, become that raw bright pink-yellow-orange. This wasforging heat. The heat of change. The yellow quickly became white and as soon as it was white hot it was all over, so you had to watch and grab the moment before it was too late.
It was only when I took the metal and placed it over the anvil to begin to strike it that I realised someone was standing there.
A woman. A peculiar-looking woman.
I can still picture her, vividly, the way I first saw her. She looked about forty years old.
