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"Small Hours"
The house holds its breath.
Somewhere a tap drips, keeping
its own counsel, marking
the minutes in a language
only pipes understand.
I stand at the window
where the garden has dissolved
into a theory of itself,
all edges lost, all colour
replaced by the memory of colour.
The child sleeps upstairs,
a fist around a bear,
breathing with the terrible
certainty of someone
who has never doubted morning.
I have doubted morning.
I have stood at this window
and watched the dark
refuse to leave.
But it always does.
Always, eventually,
the garden reassembles.
The edges return.
The tap forgets itself
and stops.
"Photograph, Unlabelled"
Nobody wrote the names on the back,
so the woman in the doorway
stays a stranger forever,
one hand raised against the sun
or waving, we can't tell which.
The house behind her is gone now.
The field is a car park.
Even the light looks foreign,
thick and yellow as old varnish,
a colour the years have added.
I keep her in a drawer
with the others we can't place,
these people who were certain
someone would remember.
They were wrong about that.
But here she is, still shading
her eyes, or saying goodbye,
to whoever holds the camera,
to whoever holds the photograph.
In poetry, what is 'enjambment'?
Markscheme