Thu, 16 Jun 2016
There I was, not coming or going,
trying to find a path through,
on and through and into the old ways
and see how it was before.
And so stood useless, soaked-heavy
seeing the rain falling,
and fat snails with heads braced like bulls
before contact, the wind picking a way
around the revenant weeds and grasses,
squat slugs in two minds, brave it out
or make a charge, wait for their luck
to turn - good or bad.
They call it gloaming, and I'll go with that.
The town has emptied and the doorways dry
and across the valley I can see the lights
of somewhere else - not better than here,
just another place visible now the sky is bled
and spent - listen hard and the rush and low
murmurs are a song, I can hear it now,
sounds long ago and far away,
but it's one I know,
and is a song all the same.