From Times Online May 10, 2007
Scarberry Hill by Josephine Dickinson
From Silence Fell
Inside the house is silence. We sit and look
across the room. You shift your elbows, smoke
and tap your pipe by turns. I write my words
in my little book. We look across the room,
or read, or meet to talk from time to time.
On Scarberry Hill the shadow under the white cloud spreads
and rolls our way. It's far away. Perhaps
it won't come down this far before it stops –
above the whitewashed house, the tumbling river
washing the valley below. Perhaps we have
to wait until it passes over. Just
a bit of rain, that's all. And when it's past,
the sun will shine again. The windsock pulls
to east. It might yet rain. The moment stays.
As tiny cars are shuttling, changing place
across its darkening pastures, Scarberry Hill
appears to frown. You're shuffling papers round,
I'm writing in my notebook still. It passes.
On Scarberry Hill the blinding streaks of green
flood out, the sky's all sun, we wipe our glasses.
Copyright © 2007 by Josephine Dickinson
Silence Fell is published by Houghton Mifflin at £16.99