Pasque flowers blooming on the dry lot
Cat tails at the edge of the pond
Pebbles waits at the fence
Another century; New Vermont cemetery, Bolton, NY I don't often write poetry--when I do it is debatable whether it should be shared, but this is among friends. These words tumbled into my mind more than a year ago in a moment of nostalgia. I tried to capture a barrage of impressions, both immediate and far removed.
Dusk
6-18-08
I walk at evening’s dusk along the cracked-clay track,
Past red-winged blackbirds swaying on last year’s mop-head cat tails.
At the dip in the road coolness swirls, pond scented,
Layered with the sun-warmed purple sweetness of matted weed.
Fragments of a bird’s egg, brown-freckled blue, lie, delicate, in a cup of dry earth.
Ahead, doves mourn softly from the cottonwoods lining the ditch.
Near the house the bay horse whickers from her pasture.
A snipe plummets, winnowing down darkening sky.
The screens of memory shift and slide across my mind;
Another path, another century.
For a moment I wonder where—and when—I am.
I walk at evening’s dusk along the cracked-clay track,
Past red-winged blackbirds swaying on last year’s mop-head cat tails.
At the dip in the road coolness swirls, pond scented,
Layered with the sun-warmed purple sweetness of matted weed.
Fragments of a bird’s egg, brown-freckled blue, lie, delicate, in a cup of dry earth.
Ahead, doves mourn softly from the cottonwoods lining the ditch.
Near the house the bay horse whickers from her pasture.
A snipe plummets, winnowing down darkening sky.
The screens of memory shift and slide across my mind;
Another path, another century.
For a moment I wonder where—and when—I am.
Nothing debatable about that - it's very evocative. check out the Edward Thomas prose on C&C - I think you share the same muse . . .
ReplyDeleteI really liked this poem. It conjures up images, sights, smells and sounds very effectively. Do keep sharing your poems.
ReplyDeleteI loved that .... your words perfectly described both place and feelings.
ReplyDeleteSome times ...for me ... a poem contains too many words of discription and the picture becomes buried in the avalanche.
Keep writing ... when you feel the inspiration and you have something to say it works so well.
Re your comment on my blog... It was a hand knitted jumper but I cannot remember by whom or the colour ...possibly by my Nana and there is a memory of it being dark green... worn with a grey kilt-like grey skirt which was attached to a bodice. The dress was a 'best' dress ...made by a dressmaker... what a treat ... and it was a beautiful lemom yellow with a sort of floral damask patern... loved it so much.
ReplyDelete