Wind in the poplars and a broken branch,
\na dead arm in the bright trees. Five poplars
\ntremble gradually to gold. The stone face
\nof the lion darkens in a sharp shower,
\nhis dreadlocks of lobelia grown long,
\ntangled, more brown now than blue eyed.<\/p>\n
My friend dead and the graveyard at Orcop,
\nher short ride to the hawthorn hedge, lighter
\nthan hare bones on men’s shoulders, our faces
\nstony, rain, weeping in the air. The grave
\ndeep as a well takes the earth’s thud, the slow
\nfall of flowers.<\/p>\n
Over the page the pen
\nruns faster than wind’s white steps over grass.
\nFor a while health feels like pain. Then panic
\nrunning the fields, the grass, the racing leaves
\nahead of light, holding that robin’s eye
\nin the laurel, hydrangea’s faded green.
\nI must write like the wind, year after year
\npassing my death day, winning ground.<\/p>\n
Notes…<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Wind in the poplars and a broken branch, a dead arm in the bright trees. Five poplars tremble gradually to gold. The stone face of the lion darkens in a sharp shower, his dreadlocks of lobelia grown long, tangled, more brown now than blue eyed. My friend dead and the graveyard at Orcop, her short… Continue reading October<\/span>