Your Letter by Terry O’Shaughnessy

Here is what I required:

your letter.


Its envelope,

its stamp

its claret ink of perfect salutation.


It arrives.


On good thick paper

you ask:


“Remember those leaves

that fell in November,

after tea that day

in the Rue des Saints Pères?

Were they the colour of yolk?

Or flame?”




I finally write it.




“It was the imperial yellow

of dragon silk”


and I worry at the miles

that will separate us,

more each year.





One thought on “Your Letter by Terry O’Shaughnessy

  1. Danielle Carole Tremblay says:

    Love your poem. Love at a distance can bring distance from love. I feel your worry.

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