Okehampton Carlton -
I drove past your village last night,
wild rain sheeting the screen. I'd gone
to Saving Private Ryan. The light
of the moon was steady, forlorn -
at the beach head there was blood,
and tide washing the bodies. I crossed
bridges, sluices of stream, of flood,
while you lay back, and lost
your struggle. In the boot, Moortown,
signed, a first edition from a jumble sale,
your half-proud name set down
on the illustration. Through the pool -
the beams catching the raggedy splash
gusted up by the tyres - and back:
the local news next night, all passion
and ponies, had you hit the sack
in a London clinic. But London spoke
of death in Devon, where my car
collided with your storm, which broke
wherever on earth you were. Or are.