Life's unwritten history


Summer loses weight, becomes
translucent at the end.
Sunlight slants graveward
with a farewell glance, & autumn’s

trumpet-call is barely audible
amid hilarious
alarums in the circuits
of the starlings (swarming, risible).

& so you wonder where you are
on earth.  John Berryman’s
in jasper, John’s in grey;
Man’s in a graveyard green (so far

from here).  Splat in a corner
one cloud-turtle (from
Iona) lifts her drum-
shell from the sea – almost another

comber, very salt & watery.
I’ll join the starling circus,
friends – I’ll whistle us
to Minneapolis, SE of Rimini.

That raven’s in the Bruegel scene.
His glance is like one
wintry oeuil upon
her apron – by the deep tureen,

at dawn, in the spare refectory;
feathered in soft silence
on a wall of remembrance.
What’s up, Dad?  Unwritten history.


September 21

1 comment:

Urban Mermaid said...

Beautiful, thank you!