Letters from Yorkshire

In February, digging his garden, planting potatoes
he saw the first Lapwings return, and came
indoors to write to me, his knuckles singing
as they reddened in the warmth.

It's not romance, simply how things are
you out there in the cold, seeing the seasons
turning, me with my heartful of headlines
feeding words onto a blank screen.
Is your life more real because you dig and sow?

You wouldn't say so, breaking ice on a waterbutt,
clearing a path through snow. Still it's you
who sends me word of that other world,
pouring air and light into an envelope so that
at night, watching the same news in different houses
our souls tap out messages across the icy miles.