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Regent's Park by Todd Swift You had asked me to bruise the rosemary with the pestle in the small white mortar we had bought together only a week before. Sara, I wrestle with the loss of you. Not that it is here but it stands out, in Regent's Park, by the gated drive, in a London Fog coat, like the security guard on his phone in the rain, as we passed the other night, the branches above us all about to break and fall in the gale. Earlier, they had come down in Leicester, and three people died from trees. Logic suggests most will keep their vaulted ceiling and not go to ground. © Todd Swift « Home | Contributor Notes » Please comment on this poem. |
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