it was ivy, dead, that flapped,
strangled wire. this wind, this winter.

now these are labelled,
tidied, and wiped clean,
cloth. damped
in warm water. he came

from nantlle valley,
pretty place, gritty place
on the way to snowdon.

he talked, we watched dust,mote
imagined words, saw
the butterfly, it was the
thirteenth of this month