The Letter
there was a meadow
Beside a field of oats, beside a wood,
Beside a road, beside a day spread out
Green at the edges, yellow at the heart.
The dust lifted a little, a finger’s breadth,
The word of the wood pigeon traveled slow,
A slow half pace behind the tick of time.
To tell you I am well, and thinking of you
And of the walk through the meadow,
and of another walk
Along the neat piled ruin of the town
Under a pale heaven, empty of all but death
And rain beginning. The river ran beside.
Now all the dogs with folded paws
Stare at the lowering sky
This is the hour when women hear
Their lives go ticking by.
The baker’s horse with rattling hooves
Upon the windy hill
Mocks the thunder in the heart
Of women sitting still.
The poppies in the garden turn
Their faces to the sand
And tears upon the sewing fall
And on the stranger’s hand.
Flap flap the washing flies
To meet the starting hail
Close the door on love and hang
The key upon the nail.
This is a profitable night, the moon’s eclipse
at last a reason for not sleeping.
There is a reason to wake every hour
to observe the shape and size of door and window
and wall and picture frame,
turn on the lamp, open the book
and let it fall away, reason to rise, make tea,
pad to the door,
stand on cool tiles
to watch the invaded moon.
I see a jagged one third of her beauty left
and somewhere, black layers back,
a rim of light.
Sometimes the moon strays into daytime skies
Ophelia-wan.
Tonight she was glittering and wild
until the mask slid down,
erasing all her gold.
