Sleepers in Fog

—for Sylvia Plath

The dead sleep in the fog—

Tombstones and stars

Regarding me sadly

I’ve disappointed them

The traffic releasing—

Lines of breath along

Cramped Market Street

There in North Tawton

Horns dolorously honking—

In the morning and then

Rush hour evening traffic

Coming back from work

Tall dark yew trees—

Silhouetting the night sky

As St Peter’s looms in

The boney heart’s silence

Ted no longer threatens—

To pull me down into

The starless fatherless

Dark watery graves