At night the white lines are like the dreams I have heard
some nights, hers. The dashboard lights hold my nerve,
at the wheel. I dream the darkness I pass returns
to silence, more deep, awed by the most exquisite
discipline, at speed. I prime those slow gentle
downs; intuit the curves, the lay of her hands,
and these black lands my other senses know well.
You have trod the snow of the eastern wilderness,
stranger. One day you found your way your Self , sailed
home; done are you now with such alien
suffering? May you nestle in; friend, dig that hole
in the snow for winter. Me? I’m so far away
I can’t begin to say, to score my pen across
the wide, wide page. I feel sure that I shall stay.
This town shall not tumble down like a tower.
In time, however, the blocks will crack, spread thin
their lines, wide along suburban miles and miles
of wood & brick; bungalows built like props. The time
will wear down, the houses crumble down after years
of nothingness, missed by the Lord’s momentous
reckoning; and the weeds will grow where they will.
3 December 2015