The late afternoon star does not compete: snatches of her
orange haze hatch the edge of the gathering clouds,
rendering the earth a pale, worn grey where once
there seemed lush greenery, recently; or has my memory,
deceived, grown as large as those trees ever were?
I remember a stream through here of quiet horsemen
on four wheels in festival colours at all hours
down the one lane, with quieter boats like mine
set fast at the harbour. Do we heed them all?
I say let the sailless whales overtake us.
We left to the yellow darkness of a storm setting in,
first the sky's bright blue brightening the field's
light yellow, then the space between the darkness
and the brightness. For my soul knows we're going
to the junction of these two highways, the junction
of this and that, to wait for a message.
Ahead, set aside on the shallow-bellied bay and up the
wide tree-lined lane of grass on the hill still lies
the sign: Christ, Scientist, for all to either beware
or mourn beneath, silently or for the world to see.
A million monkeys in the church, each typing a
thousand forgotten genius's lost works
that you've just GOT to read.
And I say write more.
For what more pleasure could a day bring than a day's worth
of pleasure, and what more could we wish for than so many
days like that? Sometimes it's obnoxious how beautiful
it is, the sun through the trees through the window
of our car through the clouds over the mountains,
and the frogs in the fields beside the road.
2011
