If you had to write this, what more than
your long shadow, triangling a very
dark green? Bright, bright shards.
What more than two collapsed friends
at the base of a monumental tree?
Than spokes lit like sun
dripping? Fountain, leafy
weed smoke, resting bikes,
and books by water, a stand
of pines? Where you’ll all
go, outstretch, reflecting.
Where will it go?
The pines that stand
under snow, one day,
no bees, with a
rustle: there’s no
imagining now, says
your long shadow,
leaning.
Frances Pope is a writer and French-English translator. She has been writing poetry and short stories for several years, taking part in readings in the UK, in France, and in Montreal where she has lived since 2015. Her work has appeared in Lantern Magazine, Phantom Drift, Carte Blanche, Asymptote, Québec Reads, L’Organe, and UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. Her first collection, Quarters, is forthcoming with Ekstasis Editions.
