Wingecarribee Ecologues

Published : Tuesday, August 28, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

My daughter, not yet one,
crawls to my chair and takes my pens
and tries to steal the book I try to write in. This could be a metaphor;
but who knows? My son, fresh from the bath and naked yet,
steps into my boots. This could be another, but I hope not. I sit in the corner
of the thick of my life, and I think I’ll keep on writing till I run of pens.

I write, I think, to sound the world
and to try the shallow syntax of myself
within it. The moon is full. Awake at 2 am, I walk out into the refined poverty
of the night in the yard. If this were day, you’d call it dark;
but it’s not. The wind is a young god just off the bench, and the night knows all
about it. The original world: no one should sleep through this.

It is good to live where the mud
on cold mornings is iced over in the ditch
and the fallen leaves trapped there look like the faces of the dead.
One of the hens has been taken in the night.
A raven caws three times in the stricken branches of the poplar by my shed.
I try the ice with my bootheel. It cracks and clouds over, and the present kicks in.


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