Wild Court

An international poetry journal based in the English Department of King’s College London

A poem by G.E. Stevens


    The Roseland Peninsula


Tell me now - how often do we live in our own description? (Charles Tomlinson)
Looking west, the hill has no house so you imagine one.
Curved stone lintels. A deep-set door where you’d expect.
Outside, an unassuming car with cassette tapes in the glovebox
and on the passenger seat, last week’s tide times.
Here and there clumps of hydrangeas burst a stupid blue
giving the impression from where you sit, of a garden —
and the more you look the more the house obliges with fire
in the fireplace, with those ochre curtains she made all crooked
on the pole and her face as she leant to kiss you goodnight —
blocking, for a moment, what was left of the light.