ISSUE: Autumn 1937
NOT unripened, standing against the hill’s lean flank, in dry grass, meekly our eyes turn westwards.
Was there ever dawn and a high noon prancing, gold on the skyway?
Blasts of breath we need, but the air swirls tightly past mouths flaccid, whispering vain words over.
Faster, hotly groaning on outworn axles, speeds the sun seawards.
Was there ever spring and the green grass matted, couching love (that gnarls in the halting veins now) while a doe and fawn in the coiling bracken froze as they eyed us?
Come, creep home.
The sun through the golden window lights one spark yet, bright on the flowerless altar: one flame more where, kneeling with slow smiles, wait the children with verses.
