This evening’s clouds capture
The private imperative of prayer.
The impossible confluence
Of sky, water in air.
There is something in them of us-
Our bending toward silent speech.
Bearing at an event horizon,
To each, an ever-escaping purchase.
Cordite, rain and oilseed rape.
The shrill train, the rolling voice.
The city is that way- this,
The village. Past tense.
Oh I would lie among
The field’s cool stalks
And listen for you along
The branch continuum.
John Regan is a Glaswegian living in Cambridge, where he is a research fellow in aesthetics, historiography at Clare Hall. He believes that poetry should be spoken aloud.