Roughly-silvered leaves that are the snow
On Ararat seen through those leaves.
The sun lays down a foliage of shade.
A drinking fountain pulses its head
two or three inches from the troughed stone.
An old woman sucks there, gripping the rim.
Why do I have to relive, even now,
Your mouth, and your hand running over me
Deft as a lizard, like a sinew of water.
Geoffrey Hill
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