This day's for looking round,
for turning arthritic
necks and shuffling feet
to scan horizons.
In the showery distance
a rainbow's arc breaks through,
questions our assumptions.
Circling the full three-sixty
we eyeball each degree,
our heavens to divine.
Nimbus, cirrus, stratus:
middle years bank up
in layers of letting go,
between clouds one and nine.
Function, sense, control fall
prey (or will) to dotage,
heart attack and strokes.
A pyrocumulus forms
from waste incineration,
and children leave like geese
to make their own mistakes.
Our tide is on the turn:
we eavesdrop the plaintive
skirl of curlews' evensong.
Lapwing are loose pages, Dunlin wheel
with hundredfold glints of sun,
and crepuscular rays flood marsh
with myth of silver linings.
vi.2011
No comments:
Post a Comment