Lisa Reily

The dark wet brick of streets; the rustle of dry reeds,
even in the damp; black-headed sheep in crisp, green grass;
poets and coffee steaming in every corner, every building
and bookshop; sparkling words flung overhead and into the spotlight;
Helen’s bleach-blonde hair, words and memories of Sheffield,
and the ways of women; three trains and a bus from our last destination;
the two of us with new blank books, waiting to write.