after the great storm’s passing
the west fills with low glamour
and everywhere those restless
trees continually gossiping
fall silent, hushed, and reverent.
in small clumps the day workers
drift along, haltingly and full
of blunted hungers or sighs.
the small groans of souls,
newly wakeful after nine hours
of long earnings, ring beyond
the glittering rim of the world
as if they were soft sleeping
words from a lover at dawn
when you are wide awake.
they stretch, they move within
themselves and stir the pots
of memory: think of home and
this time last year and the old
smell of woodsmoke and meat.
the day ends; these rise from toil
as from some sweating hibernation.
now we are at the darkening door,
now we are inside, now someone
sings a restful measure to herself
and to the gathering violet dusk.
a breeze rolls, the spell is burst,
and we again are only ordinary men
full of crabbiness and occasional grace.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s