Lar

Fugitive from an urban waste,
under white skies, pitching rain,
I make a home, whittle an icon
of pale wood, on free land build
a shrine. Close by, apple, willow,
birch, ash, planting what I must,
learn the names of the soaring
birds, twice daily, pray. My god
a gentle power, rain-maker, healer,
an English god of mist and mud,
on whom the world has no hold.
For, shunning convention’s false
mirror, I live close to death,
my guide. Friends pay no calls,
finding the silence unendurable.
Each finds his place. This mine.
In the end, I set my icon adrift,
let it coast the dark waves
as on the backs of dolphins.