THE WHEELBARROW

Longshanks, frost kept

For a month

Edgy against the wall,

The moss step and the stone urn.

You are my ghostly surprise

On a short walk;

A peculiar collector with

One rusty wheel;

That arch there bent

Way to the west

Toward Whitsunn Brook.

A single old lady

Carries you now

Mithering at grey hairs

And hoarfrost in the morning