A day of shy sunlight in the
water-meadows;
a church voyaging against a sky
torn with calling clouds,
bare trees breaking along boned
stone;
the swollen earth, dragged with
death, slipping to a stream
that flows quietly.
A quick bright going
through a hollow sun, famined by
winter,
and the dark, dank sides of trees
leaning over old secrets.
They were nearly over, the
catkins,
green-gold and opening,
rough on the grating wind
as the pollen fled, dropping
promises.
Bright, sharp blades and a fall,
a gathering.
As I walked
the catkins shook webbed shadows
over thin ground,
a shifting net humbled by sunlight,
weaving random prayers around my
heart.
Above, the sun, caressing;
below, only the robbed shadows,
stencilled on the grass,
travelling to an arrangement with
death.
Later, in a cool bowl, they
welcomed the man’s coffin.
White chrysanthemums stood still
and deep as stars;
old ivy shone, smooth and dark as
glass, offering expectant berries.
The catkins hung steady, answering
no questions,
scattering dust.
(February,
1990)
