The Old Shepherd

So you are the last, my lady;

you are the last I’ll love

with your wayward ways an’ your woman’s pride.

You take your time to come to me, you wanton;

(and your feel so fine and your warmth and joy

and the way you fit with me;

and your sometime thrust at my thigh by night;

or your rough-tongued kiss at my face as you dance away

for a space, a morning....);

I stretch my hand for you.

Come, come easy now; but you’ll no.

Just away down the hill I see you lie,

waitin’ an’ waitin’

an’ sometimes turnin’ your head

to look on me.

Will I come to you, will I?

Nay, I’ll never,  You’ll come to me for sure

when there’s trust between the both of us.

You’ll come an’ you’ll stand just

out of reach, one paw just

hesitatin’, gentle - to come, to go -

there’s never a-knowin’ which.

An’ your eyes will haunt on mine

an’ your reachin’ muzzle turn a little

an’ your shy-like ears will crinkle up

an’ you not knowin’, my lovely one,

whether to stay, to come,

will whine an’ wonder....

An’ I’ll not be lookin’ then, my darlin’, I’ll look away

as the sun slides gentle over the wall,

an’ the dying grasses sigh a little,

an’ my hands lie still, so still, a-waitin’

for you to trust in me;

waitin’ an’ waitin’....

The damsons drop.  The thatch turns gold.

The stones settle.

Come soon, my bonnie bitch; come, Death, my dearie.

I’ll not be mindin’ now.

         

(October, 1979)

Homeward In A Gale Of Moonlight

Blocks of moonlight, slabs of fear, the stalking houses reel

to memory;

the road she walks is light,

shadow-hollowed under hedges;

she is walking a ripple of silk,

her morning boots stirring the shine at the end of midnight legs;

the wallpaper clouds are shredded and stripped from the bursting sky;

and the wind throws up the moon and a sweep of leaves

and her love to one dark window.

     

(November, 1979)

Autumn Piggy-Back

“Carry!  Carry!”

Short legs, deep leaves, tired.

“Carry?”

“Just a little while....”  To the next path, the next stile,

the next difficulty.

Till father wearies, too, and the leaves fall

amber, dun, and the year turns

to winter and the child grows,

and knows

that she grows heavier, more difficult

to manage.

“Carry me, carry me;

my legs won’t work no more,

daddy....”

“No, sweetheart, not now,

you’re old enough to walk,

to be a big girl now.”

Old enough;

the leaves fall still, one by one;

men fall, one by one.

Women crawl, one by one.

Children call, one by one -

and refugees pass

one by one by one....

Old enough?

Deep leaves.  Tired.

Father, carry us.  One more time.

No, my children, all my children;

you are old enough to walk.

               

(November, 1979)