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One could imagine the bitter-sweet scenario described here by Connie Bensley being fleshed-out as a television playlet.

It comes from Finding a Leg to Stand On, Bensley's latest volume, drawn from six collections published over three decades plus new work (Bloodaxe Books, £10.95).


The fog came down at four,

thick and impassive at the windows,

and suddenly the office was an island.

You walked me home through this strangeness.

The buses had given up. An occasional car

faltered along the road, its lights describing

swirling cylinders of nothingness.

The fog set us free. We laughed at everything.

We were abroad, unattached, in lunatic spirits:

we clung, falling about on kerbstones.

You pulled me inside your overcoat

and the tweed tasted of fog.

The next day dawned bathetically fine.

You worked without remission at your desk

And I at mine.

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