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White          George Johnston

Dream, she says,
drawing her drifts about her,
when you lie broken           on the road
or wherever you get broken,
my cold in your breaks,
dream           of my white.

Or in another mood,
come           unbroken           into my inward,
sun burning through,
enter my forest of frost feathers.

Orange for berries.
Red, black, ochre and straw-coloured hairs,
black limbs, black trunks,
her beech leaves russet,
evergreens burdened;
and what she does with her fingers.

Know what she means,
then come.

Copyright © George Johnson, 1990. Originally published in
Endeared by Dark: reprinted by permission of the author.